Bed of Roses
by Azaelea
Summary: Sherlock pushes John too far. John chases Sherlock into the night. A gunshot rings out; and unsurprisingly, that's only the ruddy beginning!
1. Wrong place, wrong time

Hey Guys! First Sherlock fan-fic! Gotta love him, huh? Well, enjoy!

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**Chapter one:**

_Why? Why me Lord? _Dr. John Watson silently questioned, staring up at the ceiling. It was amazing the amount of swear words one could come up with when they were woken up at three bloody a.m. by the madman they shared a flat with. John groaned as another piece started up. Light and airy, really, far too happy for the mood he was in,

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, glad to see at least his voice still worked even though his brain didn't. Much to John's surprise, the man actually stopped,

"Yes John?" his voice, smooth and melodious floated up the stairs,

"If you don't shut up, I'm coming down there and throwing that goddamn violin out!" There was a momentary pause from downstairs….followed by more music. That was the last straw. John leapt to his feet, threw the covers back and none too gently pulled the door open. He stormed down the stairs to the sight of the consulting detective laying flat on the floor, his hair messy, his eyes closed.

"Sherlock," John's voice was dangerously low. The detective's eyes opened and he considered his flat mate;

The older man's hair was tousled and he was dressed for the cold winter night, wearing several layers, "Good morning John," Sherlock said, after completing his assessment that the doctor was on the verge of hitting him. John took a steadying breath and kept standing where he was. He wasn't going to shoot Sherlock. He was NOT going to shoot Sherlock. "How are you?" Sherlock sat up slowly, still watching John and enjoying, as the doctor's cheeks got redder and his temper rose, "You look very tried," That was it for John. It had been a week since he'd been able to get a good night's sleep, which meant that very little else could be done, and staying awake at the surgery to diagnose someone had caught the flu was proving harder and harder.

Before Sherlock could even blink, John dived on top of him, knocking the violin from his hands, with a loud _pling._ However, Sherlock was just as quick, as he playfully shoved his flat mate off and got to his feet, before haring off through the door. John only stopped to yank his boots on before he was running after Sherlock. _There go any plans for sleep, _he thought, taking the stairs two at a time, probably waking up poor Mrs. Hudson.

Then they were both on the street as they continued their insane middle-of-the-night chase. And this time there were no crazy killers. Just a very angry John who needed to let his steam off and an over-active Sherlock, the latter leading the way through the empty London streets. John couldn't help the smile as adrenaline ran through his system and he didn't even mind the biting wind that cut at him. In fact, he was quite enjoying himself and laughed along with Sherlock, who stopped up ahead to wait for his companion, until angry voices reached their ears, and the sound that John was never going to forget ripped through the night. The sound of a gunshot bounced of the buildings, the smile on both his and Sherlock's faces fading, and then suddenly, Sherlock doubled up, grabbing his lower abdomen, from which a scarlet patch was staining the pristine white shirt he had been wearing.

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So…what did ya think? Please tell?

Aza :D


	2. Hospital

Apologies for not spelling John's name right! Dunno what got into me.

Anyway, moving along.

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**Chapter 2:**

John paced around the waiting room in nervous agitation and Lestrade, who had been called in as soon as the ambulance got there watched the man. John was replaying things in his head, wondering if there was anything that he could have done, anything that might have limited the damage. As soon as he laid Sherlock on the ground, the detective looking scared for the very first time since they had been living together, someone ran out of their house, with a mobile phone. Obviously, gunshots in the middle of the night were not that common in that part of London. Even now, John was not entirely sure where they had been. The drive to the hospital had been one where John all but taken over from the paramedics as he commanded them. They were almost glad when they got to hospital and John could harass someone else. Only when they reached the operation theatre did John back off and walk to the waiting room to greeted with the sight of Lestrade, who had followed behind in the car, waiting for him, worry etched onto his face. Ever since then, and they had been here for almost an hour, John had paced restlessly, while Lestrade watched him. Finally, Lestrade had enough,

'John, at least go and wash your hands," the ex-army medic looked down in surprise as if he didn't notice the blood until now,

"Oh. Right," he said, a little dazedly and Lestrade got to his feet,

'C'mon," he steered John towards the bathroom. They walked in silence until Lestrade spoke up,

'He's too stubborn to die," said Lestrade and John turned to look at him in surprise,

"Huh?'

"He's far too stubborn to just give and up and die," Lestrade repeated himself, "This is Sherlock we're talking about," John managed a half- hearted smile as he pushed the door open,

"I hope you're right."

* * *

John was almost asleep and Lestrade _was_ asleep by the time the doctor came into the waiting room, still dressed in his scrubs, "Dr. John Watson?" he asked and immediately, John snapped to attention, blinking dazedly, before he remembered where he was,

"Uh, yes?" he asked, suppressing a yawn. Lestrade opened his eyes too and got to his feet,

"Mr. Holmes is going to be fine," John let out the pent up breath he hadn't known he'd been holding before sinking into the chair. Lestrade shook the doctor's hand,

"Thank you," he said and the doctor smiled,

'He'll have to stay for a few days more, and then he'll need care at home, Doctor" John smiled. Sherlock was not going to like this.

As the doctor walked away and Lestrade slapped John on the back in a congratulatory way, Donovan walked in,

"Sir?" he looked up,

'Ah, Donovan, finally,"

"Yes sir. We have gathered up all the evidence we could find. One shell casing, next to a jumper, probably thrown down by the attacker,"

"Unintentional attacker," Lestrade corrected and John nodded,

'Sherlock wasn't the target, John sighed,

"I highly doubt that," Donovan muttered as John continued,

'Wrong place, wrong time," he finished, his voice sounding bone-weary, before he picked up on what Donovan said, "Can't you ever be nice to him?"

'Why? He's never nice to me," Lestrade just rolled his eyes,

'Alright, it's a little early for bickering just yet children," he said. John was about to reply but was cut off by a voice he hadn't been expecting,

"My sentiments exactly," Mycroft Holmes, still dressed impeccably and looking for all the world like he had just woken from a refreshing sleep, walked into the room,

"Mycroft?" things were suddenly moving a little fast for John,

"Good morning John," he said, pleasantly, and Lestrade began to wonder how many other people were going to walk in here,

"What – why didn't you come sooner?" John couldn't keep the accusatory note out of his voice,

"Because, I believe I have found the man who shot my little brother," Lestrade and Donovan looked like they had just been hit in the face,

'You're – Sherlock – wait, Sherlock has a brother?" Lestrade finally managed to choke out,

"The freak has a brother?" Donovan asked, her voice considerably higher pitched than normal,

"Yes, he does," Mycroft turned his cool gaze on her, freezing her to the spot before turning back to John and Lestrade, "I will tell you more later, at your office," Lestrade just nodded dumbly,

"But now, I must see Sherlock. Mummy gets so worried," with that, Mycroft took off down the hall. John and Lestrade stood there for a moment longer, their befuddled brains trying to make sense of it all, before they followed Mycroft, leaving Donovan on her own.

* * *

John froze in the doorway as he looked at the resting form of his flatmate, inside a small room, with a gorgeous view of the city from the window. Just earlier this morning he was like a live wire, jumping from this place to another, running up the stairs, playing his violin, and now, at six forty three, he was completely still, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest, and it unnerved John.

"Sherlock," John breathed, even though he knew the detective couldn't hear him. Mycroft looked his brother over before stepping away to allow John in. The doctor stood beside the bed and took Sherlock's hand in his own, a movement he himself was surprised with. Lestrade raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything as Mycroft motioned that they should leave the room.

On his own with Sherlock, John sat on the bed, glad to feel the warmth from Sherlock, proving that his friend was still here, still alive, still breathing.

"Typical," he said, his voice soft, his eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, "The only time I get you to sleep is when you're shot," John laughed to himself – at least, he thought he was laughing to himself. Slowly, Sherlock's eyes flickered open and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards,

"Yes, it is rather, isn't it?' he asked, his words as sharp and clear as always, if not a hoarse. John jumped and let go of his hand, which Sherlock found he missed. John walked over to the table and poured him a glass of water, before walking back. Sherlock tried to raise his hand, but John pushed it back down and instead raised the bed with practised ease and put the glass to Sherlock's mouth. He drank relatively quickly and smiled as John put the glass back on the bedside table,

'So, you've probably figured out who did this, haven't you?" John asked and Sherlock chuckled, wincing as the movement jarred his abdomen,

"Not quite, no," Sherlock, even in this state, could see that John was controlling his emotions, that he had been scared. The medic's clothes were crumpled and his hair was messy, meaning he hadn't bothered to do much else than wash his hands _Lestrade probably forced him_ Sherlock thought and smiled again,

'What?" Asked John, looking at Sherlock's smiling features,

"Nothing, just thinking," They fell silent again until Lestrade walked back in the door. Both of them looked up,

'Sherlock! You're awake! They said you wouldn't be up for hours!"

'When have I ever conformed to rules?" Lestrade laughed,

'Point taken," Lestrade smiled before looking at John, "John, do you want to come down to Scotland Yard? We can sort things out there properly," John nodded, smiling genuinely for the first time that night,

"Don't leave me alone," Sherlock whined, and John could've hugged him, but didn't,

"You won't be alone," said Lestrade, 'Your brother will be in shortly," Sherlock groaned as John patted his hand lightly, laughing all the way, before walking out with the DI,

'We're going to catch them," he said, turning his head to Lestrade who nodded,

"Hell yeah," he smiled as both of them walked into the waiting elevator.

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Yay! Sherlock's alright! ;D

You like? Please tell. :)

Aza


	3. Strange night

Thank you to everyone who had read! Luv you all!

**Disclaimer: **They'd already be a couple by now...

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**Chapter 3:**

When John and Lestrade walked into Scotland Yard, they were the only people there, and as they emerged on Lestrade's floor, John found himself wishing there was someone else here too, so that he wouldn't have to think about just how easily the bullet could've gone the wrong way, could've been higher, could've hit Sherlock's heart…so caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't notice the cord snaking its way across the office floor until he actually tripped over it and joined it on the floor. Lestrade, who had been talking, turned to face him,

"What are you doing down there?" he asked, knowing full well John didn't choose to be there. With a huff John pulled himself to his feet,

'Shut up,"

"You're never going to live this down," Lestrade chuckled, "A doctor who manages to injure himself," Lestrade laughed again, his voice ridiculously loud in the dead of this night,

"Shut it," John repeated, as they walked into Lestrade's office. The DI was about to make another witty comment when the pink paper stuck the to window of the office caught his attention,

"What the hell?' he muttered, walking over to it and ripping it off the window.

John watched as his eyes travelled down the paper quickly, widening in surprise before looking up at the doctor,

"John, John, this, this is," Lestrade struggled to put words together and John's heart rate accelerated. He walked over to the DI and read the paper,

_DI Lestrade, oh and Dr. Watson,_

_I have been watching with interest, really, I have, but you're just so…boring. I mean, honestly, the fact that you found the jumper at all was a miracle really. It makes me laugh, to think that you might figure this one out without your beloved Sherlock. _

_Ah yes, well, good luck with the hunt, and I shouldn't have been so nice. Should've aimed higher, but it was a rather rushed shooting and performance._

_Anyway, I still got a kick out of it._

_Have a good day,_

_Tommy Jiriar_

_P.S If you are wondering, I'll be along to visit Sherlock soon, so have fun._

John looked back up at Lestrade who had recovered his composure, "We have to go now," said John, his heart racing violently, his mind jumping to conclusions, seeing the blood stain the pillows of St Bart's…"John," Lestrade shook the man out of his reverie and pulled him outside. Together, they ran to the lift. John pounded the elevator button impatient for it come up. The men stepped into the lift, hoping that nothing was going to happen to Sherlock, that whoever this Tommy was, he wasn't going to do anything to Sherlock. Oh how very wrong they were.

* * *

Outside the hospital, it was pre-dawn, so the only lights were coming from the streetlamps, casting an orange glow over the surroundings, and on the cars of people getting an early start. Upon the roof of the building, opposite to St Bart's a man stood, wrapped against the cold, with a sniper rifle held in his hand. His head was bald, and he was dressed completely in black. Underneath those dark clothes, a person could tell from a mile off that he was very well built, his muscles were bulging through the thick coat and despite his size, his movements were still graceful, and precise. He watched through the window as Sherlock Holmes, no doubt groaning about having to eat, pushed his plate away and his brother pushed it towards him again. _Lovely little family scene,_ the man thought, watching with the eyes of a professional, calculating the angle, the distance and the wind from his point to the heart of Sherlock Holmes. _Pity I have to break them up._ He almost grinned at the thought. He raised the rifle to his eyes, the crosshairs marking centre on Sherlock. He took a deep breath, and was about to pull the trigger when he was knocked over the head with a brick that John had picked up on entering the terrace.

Earlier, as the assassin lined up the crosshairs, intent on killing Sherlock, he didn't see the figures on the ground, the figures of John and Lestrade jumping out of their car and scanning the buildings. He didn't see them spot him, watching the scene in the hospital. And he most certainly didn't see them entering the building he was standing on, running up the steps and opening the door to stop him firing the shot. He was going to regret that for the rest of his life.

John leaned against the side of the building as Lestrade cuffed the man and unloaded the rifle. Both men were panting and John felt like now was a good time to collapse to the floor in utter exhaustion. "How did you know?" Lestrade asked, patting the doctor on the back,

"I…" John took a breath, "I didn't. All that mattered was Sherlock," he said, his face reddening just a little bit and Lestrade shook his head. Sometimes, he just didn't understand how someone like Sherlock had managed to win the loyalty, trust and respect of John.

"C'mon," The assassin at their feet stirred and Lestrade toed him on the head, 'we've got an assassin to take to Sherlock," John grinned as the first ray of light appeared over horizon; this was turning into a very strange night indeed.

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Okay. Okay. If anyone can tell me who Tommy Jiriar is and _how_ they figured that out, hugs and kisses to him or her…or them!

Aza ;D


	4. Problems

Thank you to everyone who has read, but special mention to:

Faelan, Melissa Jooty, Victoria, Manwithasqueegee, LOL, Nicetameetcha, Buyokitty, Eejitcat and Sarahpibworthlovesjohnnycade; all of you figured out that Tommy Jiriar is an anagram of Jim Moriarty! Smartie pants! You all get hugs :D

Special mention also to Mini Reyes who has followed all my stories from the start!

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**Chapter 4:**

Walking through a hospital while frog-marching an assassin, with a very big, red, bruise on his head is always bound to attract attention. John sighed as the quiet conversations stopped altogether as he, Lestrade and the semi-conscious assassin walked past. "We're almost there," said Lestrade. On the way over, John told him all about Mycroft and his unknown government job, and Lestrade thanked the stars for Mycroft's connections in getting Sherlock the most accessible ward in the hospital, meaning that they didn't have to take the lift and endure even more stares.

The trio kept on walking until they reached room thirty and entered, making Sherlock and Mycroft look up. "Ah, so you caught him," said Mycroft getting to his feet. Both John and Lestrade exchanged a glance,

"What?" John asked, dumping the assassin in a nearby chair,

"You caught the assassin then," Sherlock put in,

'You knew there was an assassin?" Lestrade asked, more than little confused,

"Well yes. We, rather I, came to the conclusion that Moriarty is responsible for this whole charade, and wants Sherlock dead. Why he missed however, we are trying to figure out. He left you a note?" Mycroft looked enquiringly at the Doctor and the Inspector, the latter who nodded, 'Back at the office," Mycroft nodded,

"Just as I thought," He looked back at his younger brother, "We had a bet, you see. Whether you'd get the assassin before my men did. Unfortunately, I now owe Sherlock ten thousands pounds,"

"You bet ten thousand pounds?" John glared at Sherlock, "We are barely making the rent payments! For God's sake Sherlock! Where in heaven's name were you going to get ten thousand pounds from?" Sherlock had a sheepish look on his face, and was looking down at the floor, rather like a five year old being told off,

"Your bank account?" he answered, asking more than stating. John took a deep breath and let it out,

"My bank account," He repeated,

"Yeah,' There was silence in the room and Lestrade felt like laughing out loud. This was ridiculous.

'Alright, I'm going to take our assassin friend down to the yard," Lestrade pulled him up,

'Why'd you bring him here then?" asked Mycroft,

"Because I figured you'd want to question him. Seems you know all the answers already," Lestrade dragged the man up and turned to John, "Thanks for everything. Come down later," he said and John nodded, his gaze still fixed on Sherlock,

"I'll join you on your way out. Must get back to the office," Mycroft followed Lestrade out.

With that John and Sherlock were left alone in the room, the only sound coming from the heart rate monitor,

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock muttered. He hated it when John was angry, and people seemed a lot less angry when they were apologized to. However, an apology coming from Sherlock was enough to make John forget why he was angry,

"I think you may have been hit on the head at some stage," he said, and Sherlock looked up at the lighter tone in his voice,

"So you're not angry?" he asked, and this time John couldn't resist the urge. He walked over to his friend and hugged him. Tensing first, Sherlock relaxed into his embrace, relishing the smell that he had come to associate with John. He wished John would hug him more often.

* * *

On the other side of London, however, there were no hugs to be given out, certainly not from the man pacing behind the desk, in an office, on the fifth floor of multi-story building, "The plan was simple!" he exclaimed, kicking his chair in anger. It bounced off a dirty wall, echoing in the silence of the room. The others, waiting on his ever word, cringed at the venom in his voice,

"He's at Scotland Yard now, sir," The bravest, and stupidest of the mercenaries spoke up. Their boss turned to face him - very slowly.

"I know," His voice was carefully controlled, "and since you've brought that up, you can go and get him," he said, leaning on the table, "If he cracks under questioning, I'm not the only one who'll go down. All of you will too," The man jumped to his feet. He was over six feet tall and his hair, which had once been black, caught the light that was filtering through the dirty glass, changing colour from white to a light blonde. He had a tattoo running down from his neck to his right arm, and a scar from a chainsaw blade on his neck that was hidden by the collar of his shirt, "How the hell do I do that?" he asked, his voice suddenly an octave higher, "The building is full of coppers!"

The bosses' eyes scanned the men,

"Well, you'll have everyone else with you, won't you," a deathly silence fell on the assembled. No one dared to breathe. The boss watched all their faces, "What are you all sitting here for? GET GOING!" he suddenly roared. Spurred into action, there was a scramble as the men got to their feet and ran for the door. The boss sat back in his chair and as the lights outside were switched off and the light of a new day washed over the dark office, it caught the piece of paper siting on the desk.

Wanted: Jim Moriarty

* * *

"Are you going to tell us anything? Or are we just going to sit here and go around in circles?" Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his face completely impassive. Outside, behind the one way window, John stood, watching the back of the assassin's head, who kept a silence as stony as the brick wall facing him. "Right well, we'll tell you something, how about that? You're name is Frederick Jones; you are forty-five years old and have ten different warrants on your head from sixteen different countries. One of them being the Untied Kingdom. Welcome home by the way," Lestrade added pleasantly, as if he were talking about the weather and not listing a highly classified fact file, "MI6 is after you and have been for rather a while. You are facing life in jail, fifteen times over," The assassin, Frederick, just kept on staring straight ahead, and Lestrade felt like bashing his head in, 'Alright. We'll continue this discussion soon" With that, he walked out of the interview room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He turned as John emerged from the viewing room, "Not good?" the doctor asked,

"No. Not good," said Lestrade, sighing, 'I might as well go and talk to my car for all the response I'm getting from this one," he said,

"What are we going to do then?" asked John as they started walking down the corridor, towards the lift,

"I think we should get Sherlock in on this," said Lestrade, and John nodded.

As they stood in front of the lifts, both men in silent contemplation, all the lights in the building went out, plunging them into total darkness,

"John?" Lestrade called, even though he was standing barely a foot away from the doctor, who replied by grabbing his shoulder,

"I'm still here," he sounded as calm as ever, 'is this a drill that we don't know about?"

"At seven forty-five in the morning?" There was silence for a minute,

'Ah," John was about to add something when they both heard running footsteps;

"This way!" a baritone voice ordered in hushed tones, 'He's got to be in one of these rooms,"

"But what if he isn't?" asked another voice,

'Then we're screwed," Yet another voice answered. Despite the fact that John and Lestrade couldn't actually see each other, they both came to the same conclusion – the men were here for Frederick. John started as Lestrade grabbed his arm and dragged him down the corridor, but followed him when he realised that it was the DI. They ran silently, until Lestrade stopped, as they reached a door he knew existed from memory, and after clutching around for the handle, he finally found it and led John inside.

Still pitch black, John felt around and realised that there were shelves, on all the walls. 'Night vision goggles are here!" Lestrade whispered, finding John's hand and placing the goggles in it. John pulled them on gratefully and finally could see where he was.

The room appeared to be a storage room, holding not only weapons, but dresses, suits, shoes, handbags, a motorised bike, several piles of books, and, for some reason, a massive polystyrene sun. "Where'd you get this stuff?" John picked up a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic and, after finding a suitable clip, clicked it into place,

"Confiscated," said Lestrade, smiling as he picked up a machine gun, "Let's go," he led the way out, and they silently slipped back into the hallway, John eerily reminded of Afghanistan night duty and the eerie green surroundings which turned white as a bomb blew up, sending him and his team running blindly.

Pushing the sense of déjà vu away, John registered with surprise that there were four male trespassers, all crowding around one door – the door which led to Frederick,

"We have to stop them," he whispered, sure he wouldn't be heard from this distance, thanks to the fact that all four of them were speaking at the same time,

'How?" asked Lestrade, 'we can't just go in there shooting. And no one can get down to this level because the lifts would have stopped and the doors on the stairs only open with a pass card – which requires electricity," said Lestrade and John thought for a minute,

"Right. Well then, we'll have to distract them," he said,

"How?" Lestrade whispered back. John looked the DI up and down,

'You've got the perfect figure," he said and Lestrade actually took a step back,

"What?" he asked, starting to catch onto John's idea and not liking it. John grinned again,

"How well do you think you can stand on heels?" with that he led Lestrade back into the storage room, the DI beginning to think that John was spending way too much time around Sherlock.

* * *

Lestrade in heels…what do you think? Lol. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!

Aza


	5. Deja vu

Right. Here's the next chapter. It's a bit longer than the others.

I Promise that Sherlock will be there next chapter! This just needed to be cleared up. :)

* * *

**Chapter 5:**

"I'm not doing this!" Lestrade exclaimed as John pushed his way to the back of the room and grabbed the dress he saw earlier,

"Yes you are,"

"No I'm not," The doctor turned around to look at Lestrade, and even through the green haze caused by the night vision it was obvious he was not going to back down,

"We have no time," said John, 'It's now or never mate," Lestrade sighed, and walked over to John, pulling his jacket off as he went,

"Fine, but you tell anyone about this and I will skin you alive," John grinned. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

Outside, the mercenaries were still trying to figure out what to do, "Let's just ram the door!" the hugely muscled man exclaimed, his deep voice booming around the corridor,

'Shut up! Can you say it any louder?" A leaner, but just as tall man whispered back, "And we can't ram the door. It is sealed!"

'Then what do we do?"

"What we do best," he replied, and received blank stares through the night vision goggles,

"What do we do best?"

"Idiot. We will wait for a copper to come down here and ambush him! We can steal his card and get in the room," The leader motioned to a cement support beam that was attached to wall, providing excellent cover, "We'll wait over there," He led the team to the post and they followed, like a pack of dogs, too stupid to think of anything themselves. The hugely muscled man shook his head in a confused fashion as he followed the others, 'we don't have a bush to ambush with," he muttered, causing everyone in front of him to groan.

* * *

Meanwhile, inside the storage/dressing room, Lestrade had stripped down to his boxers and was staring at the bra John held out for him,

"What did you do to get this? A strip search or something?" the medic asked, eyeing the bra,

"No, it was a drag queen we brought in last year," he said, taking the bra as if it were a bomb, 'What are we going to put in it?" he asked, and John glanced around, before spotting what they needed. Lestrade put the piece of clothing on while John climbed over shelves and piles of junk to get to what he wanted. Lestrade turned as John came back with tennis balls,

"No," he said,

"Why not?"

'Because…I don't think I'd ever be able to play tennis again," said Lestrade and John rolled his eyes, a movement that went unnoticed under the goggles,

"Get them in there," Lestrade sighed before he shoved them in feeling like a complete fool,

'Now what?'

"The dress," John handed him a red cocktail dress that was just the right length for him. It was silky to the touch and Lestrade realised any woman would look stunning in this - but he wasn't a woman.

"John," his voice took on a whiny tone that John was all too familiar with, thanks to one particularly irritating detective

"Don't you dare. Put it on. C'mon! They'll have the generator working soon and those idiots will be out of here. We need to have them in custody before the lights are back on. Let's get going!" John was practically jumping up and down on the spot.

It was like electric currents were running through his body and his mind was focused only on getting the men outside. They helped Moriarty to hurt Sherlock and as Lestrade unhappily zipped the back of the dress up, looking more and more uncomfortable, John realised something – if anyone ever tried to hurt Sherlock, he would be there to make sure they got hurt back.

"Alright, we're ready to go, Lestrade brought John back to their plan, as the DI fitted a black, long curly-haired wig on,

"The heels," John pointed at them and Lestrade groaned, pulling his socks off,

'They're stilettos!" he complained,

"I know. Put them on," Lestrade sighed and used John's shoulder for support as he shoved his foot in. Immediately he gained about two inches on John's already short figure and John sighed as Lestrade laughed, 'Right, so you remember the plan?" John looked up at Lestrade, who removed the goggles as he spoke,

"Yep. I go out there. Act all lost and confused and get their attention. You then shoot to immobilize, I use the gun hidden in my boxer pocket and it'll all be alright," said Lestrade, unable to keep the scepticism out of his voice,

'Exactly," John checked his gun and Lestrade looked down, unable to see anything,

"Guide me out of here," he said, and John nodded, before remembered that Lestrade couldn't see him and saying "yes,"

He took Lestrade's shoulders and led him to the door, "Remember," John whispered, "You're voice is going to need to be high, otherwise they're going to be suspicious,"

"I know," Lestrade snapped back. As John let go of his shoulders, so that he could go and open the door, Lestrade almost fell over, unable to keep his balance on the high heels. John went back around behind the DI and took his shoulders again,

"Alright," he pushed him forward slightly, to get him shuffling out into the hall, the sound of the stilettos loud in the silent hallway. John turned him so he was facing the way the men were and then let go of him, ducking back into the storage room, because he knew Moriarty's men would be looking this way.

_Goddamn you John,_ Lestrade though as he wobbled his way down the corridor, "Hello?" he called, his voice several octaves higher than usual, 'Is-Is anyone here!" In the storage room John was biting his lip to keep from making any sound as he laughed at the mere thought of Lestrade as a helpless woman.

At the end of the corridor the men leaned out and couldn't believe their eyes. Most of them hadn't been anywhere near a woman for years and seeing this one, with a lean figure and obviously a little tipsy from the fact that she was barely able to stand straight, was enough to get them excited,

"What should we do?" asked one, looking at their lean leader. He grinned wickedly and got to his feet, coming out from his hiding position, crossing the distance between himself and Lestrade in less than twenty seconds,

"Hello love," he said and Lestrade froze. His calves were already beginning to hurt and this dress was way too tight in the most uncomfortable spots.

"Who's there?" he asked, wishing he could see something other than darkness. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and he jumped about a mile,

"Calm down honey," the man said, his breath washing over Lestrade, making the DI choke,

"I'm a little lost," Lestrade said, as, in the storage room, John flicked the safety off, screwed the silencer on and took aim. In the blink of an eye, a howl of pain and rage shook the hallway as John's bullet buried itself into the leader's leg.

In that same instant, the light came back on, and the trespassers, Lestrade and John, closed their eyes and exclaimed in pain. Lestrade was the luckiest. He was the only one not wearing night vision goggles. He blinked in the sudden bright light and found he could see again, but the others couldn't. John ran out of the storage room, wincing as he walked into the door post before finding the corridor. Lestrade looked around for the others, but from his position couldn't see them hiding behind the cement post,

'Lestrade?" John squinted, seeing nothing but white light, a stark contrast to the blackness he experienced before. 'Here," Lestrade stepped over the whimpering form on the ground and walked towards John, grabbing his upper arm,

'Where are the others?"

'Behind the support beam," John's sight came back, but that also meant that the others did too. Lestrade whirled as a shot suddenly went sailing past John's ear. Without thinking twice, the DI un-holstered the gun on his thigh holster and shot back, injuring the man in the arm. His friends scrambled to their feet and ran over to the lift hitting the button and dashing around the corner as both John and Lestrade fired, the bullets ricocheting off the steel doors,

'Damn," both John and Lestrade cursed at the same time.

The sound of the elevator doors opening drew their eyes and suddenly the men were running into the elevator. "Oi!" Lestrade yelled as John fired twice, the men dodging both of them. John fired three more times before the door closed. The DI looked at the doctor and they both reached the same conclusion, "Stairs," Kicking off his heels, and John following, Lestrade ran to the doors, flashing his pass and sprinting up the stairs.

The two men burst into the main foyer of Scotland Yard, a downright mess compared to the neat black suits and ties of everyone else. As they stumbled onto the scene, chests heaving and eyes scanning the crowd, Donovan called, "Boss?" just as the lifts opened and the assailants ran out, spotted John and Lestrade, who had lost his wig on the stairs, gave him a funny look before taking off like a jack in the box,

"C'mon," This time John took the lead and pelted after both of them as they ran through the building. Lestrade was not far behind and he knew he heard Donovan exclaiming at the sight of her boss in a dress.

Lestrade swore as they broke onto the road but had to follow. He caught up to John and together they followed, the criminals in front of them becoming more panicked as they closed the gap. They kept running, over cars, across busy streets – John was sure they knocked a kid into a pile of shoes. Oh well. All in the name of justice.

John was beginning to feel the pain in his leg as sweat dripped down his back as they turned yet another corner and raced across a street, barely avoiding a double-decker bus. Long since had he disposed of his jumper, and he and Lestrade were going quite well, but this had turned in to more a test of endurance than anything else, as they tore around a corner and came onto the sight of St. Bart's. Both John and Lestrade froze and the men in front of them tuned and grinned,

"Well, Inspector, Doctor," One said looking at them, 'we have a consulting detective to kill," Before John could reach for his gun they were off again and so was he and Lestrade,

'Bastards!" he yelled as they ran into the hospital and turned left – towards Sherlock's ward. Not particularly caring about what this might look like,, John stopped and raised his gun. Screams echoed around the foyer as John fired twice, hitting one man in the leg and missing the other by a hair's width. He grinned, and, forgetting his companion, he sprinted down the hallway, closely followed by John and Lestrade. They turned into the corridor, which led to Sherlock's door, when the Consulting detective appeared in the corridor.

Everyone skidded to a halt. Moriarty's man raised his gun, time itself seeming to slow down. Sherlock's eyes widened as the gun centred on his heart, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, a gunshot rang out, loud and clear, it's sound bouncing off the tiled floors, and a body fell to the ground, with a reverberating thud.

* * *

I hate Moriarty. I really, really do. But I hoped you enjoyed this!

Please tell me what you think.

Sherlock/John in the next chapter! Yay!

Aza :D


	6. Beside manner

This was written at 6 am…there is going to be randomness and fluffiness…it's a filler. More action to follow.

* * *

**Chapter 6:**

John was trembling as he lowered his gun, his breath was coming in short gasps, and all he could focus on was the fact that Sherlock was still standing and the man who had led them on the chase was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. _I Think I'm about to join him_ John made a small noise of protest before his over-taxed body crumpled, and only Lestrade kept him from hitting his head on the stone floor below.

* * *

When John woke it was to find himself in a hospital bed with a very worried Lestrade and Sherlock on either side, "What…happened?" John hated clichés but some situations called for them,

"You passed out," said Lestrade. John raised his head slightly and looked around,

"How long?"

"Exactly fifty-six minutes and thirty three seconds," Sherlock answered without looking at the clock. He winced as he moved his abdomen and John frowned,

'Get back to bed," he said, pulling himself into a sitting position, ignoring the way the room spun,

'Can't" replied Sherlock,

"Why not?"

'You're in it," Sherlock grinned as John blushed and Lestrade shook his head, When were these two going to realise that their feelings for each other were not platonic. In fact, they were anything but platonic. Stupid idiots seemed to have some serious trouble realising that.

"I better go and help local police," he said, turning and leaving them be,

'You saved my life," Sherlock didn't even know why he felt the need to state something so blatantly obvious,

"I did?" John tried to unscramble his brain but having Sherlock leaning on the bed in such close proximity was jumbling his already fried brain. Sherlock nodded, and then suddenly, he was hugging John.

He didn't know what made him do it. He felt the unexplainable, somewhat irritatingly _human_ urge to just feel John's arms around him. He wanted that protection, he wanted…Sherlock almost gasped as the realisation hit home – he wanted love. It took the John a while to actually realise what was happening, but he soon wrapped his arms protectively around Sherlock, feeling his warmth, and his heart beat, which for some strange reason sped up as he nuzzled against John's neck. The heartbeat was testament that Sherlock was there beside him, that he wasn't going anywhere. His surprisingly heavy weight was something that John welcomed, the feel of Sherlock's soft curls something he'd always wanted to play with, to run his hands through.

At some stage Sherlock had actually climbed onto the bed and was now sleeping on top of John, whose arms were still wrapped around the consulting detective even though he too, was asleep. Both were mentally and physically exhausted from everything they had been put through and made a cute sight for anyone walking past – especially Lestrade and Mycroft, who entered the hospital at the same time.

In the time it took to clean up the body and get changed, the security camera footage of Lestrade running around Scotland Yard in a dress had gone viral and was headed for the evening news – not to mention tomorrow's newspaper. As soon as he had entered Scotland Yard he was greeted with catcalls and whistles, even from his own team. Never had Lestrade ever wished he could disappear more than he had at that very minute. It was amazing though, that Sherlock was yet to say anything about the dress.

Now, walking through the relatively busy corridors with Mycroft, he had a sneaking suspicion that the man had come here only to rib him, as even Lestrade, who in no way had the powers of observation that Sherlock possessed, noticed the small smile of Mycroft's otherwise humourless lips. As they walked into Sherlock and John's room they were greeted by the sight of both men asleep and Lestrade was amazed to see the smile of Mycroft's lips grow.

"That's a little unexpected," Lestrade said, looking at the elder Holmes, who did not, in any way look even the slightest bit perturbed by this turn of events,

'About time," he said and Lestrade raised an eyebrow,

"You've notice it too?" he asked, in reference to Sherlock and John's relationship,

"I believe half of London has noticed it," Mycroft replied, causing the DI to laugh.

* * *

Indeed, half of London _had_ noticed it – one man in particular.

Moriarty was pacing up and down like a caged tiger. All the men he had sent had been captured and injured. He didn't particularly care about the injured part – it now meant that he would have to change locations – again. He hated real estate agents. Sighing as if he were an eighty-eight year old man, he got to his feet. _I'm going to get you, Sherlock._ He thought, his teeth grinding away as he walked to the lift. He turned to face the closing door _and it'll be nice and personal, too. No one else is going to do my dirty work for me._ He grinned as he started moving. Yes. All he had to do was get a real estate agent whose head he was not temped to rip off and everything would be good. Sherlock Holmes was as good as dead.

* * *

At the hospital Lestrade and Moriarty were trying to decide whether or not it was a good idea to wake the sleeping men up,

"Do you think they'd mind?" asked Lestrade, watching them,

'We don't have a choice. There's a madman on the loose, we've got to do something about that," said Mycroft,

"You'd sell out our grandmother, if it meant that you'd get some work done," Sherlock said, his smooth baritone voice soft so as not to wake John up. Both Lestrade and Mycroft jumped – even Mycroft had not realised that his younger brother was awake.

"I wouldn't sell Grandmother out,"

"Yes you would"

"No I wouldn't"

"Yes, you would,"

"Grow up," John opened his eyes, and shifted. He didn't seem at all surprised to find Sherlock on top of him. Both Holmes' brothers looked at him, "What?" the doctor shifted under their stare, "You never shut up,"

"I know," Lestrade sat down on the plastic chair that had been kept by the side of the bed, as Sherlock sat up and ran a hand over his eyes, messing up his already messy hair.

"Moving on," Mycroft leaned on his umbrella, "Sherlock, are you feeling better?"

"No," Everyone turned as a doctor walked into the room, "He' s not going anywhere. And I'm afraid the hospital had a no sharing your bed rule," he said, barely batting an eyelash,

"But it's comfy," Sherlock whined, making John laugh,

"I'm sorry," said the doctor, "Up you get doctor," He adopted the tone that he would usually use on his five year old patients.

John managed to slide himself out from under Sherlock and rolled over the side, pausing for a minute to get his equilibrium back before walking over to Lestrade. Sherlock thought the bed was far too cold without John.

"Doctor we…" Mycroft sighed. He didn't want to say this, but someone had to, "We need him," he said and Sherlock grinned like the Cheshire cat,

"Oh God. Brilliant. Just give the mad axeman an axe" said Lestrade and John laughed,

"That would be okay. This is like giving the nuclear key to Kim Jong Il," Even the doctor laughed and Sherlock pouted, "I'm not that bad," John caught his gaze and smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling up, and Sherlock smiled back, a silent message passing through them both.

* * *

Sorry for mistakes again…and sorry for randomness. Something very…um, interesting is going to happen next chap. Promise.

Aza

P.S Please review? *puppy dog eyes*


	7. Letter to John

Hello again! Thank you for the wonderful response! You keep me writing! and you make me feel really good when I'm feeling really bad :D

Okay, shortish chapter, i know, but yeah. I've got a debate tomorrow! *crying and running away* :)

* * *

**Chapter seven:**

_I've got it now. Yes. I've definitely got it. No one can take it away from me!_ Moriarty grinned as he walked into a new house. After spending around an hour walking around with a woman with an attention span of three seconds – maybe, he found the perfect place. It was a high-rise building in the centre of London, and the fourth floor was free. He was going to buy it and nothing was about to stop him, "You'll take it?" The irritating realtor walked up to him,

"Of course," his answer was short, clipped, and cold; the agent seemed immune to the almost dark tendrils of hatred flowing out from Moriarty,

"Great!" she exclaimed, dialling her boss and left Moriarty standing in front of the building. He smiled. As soon as he got his favourite beanbag into the building, he could set his plan into action.

* * *

Finally released from the hospital, in the late evening, through endless begging and a lot of influence from Mycroft, John and Sherlock walked into their flat, the latter, much to his chagrin, leaning heavily on John, due to the sleep inducing medications and still painful wound, "I'm fine," Sherlock said for the tenth time that minute and John finally gave up,

"Okay," He stepped away from Sherlock and immediately Sherlock fell to the floor.

John cocked his head to the side and considered the detective, who lay on the ground, looking up at John,

'That wasn't fair," he muttered, glaring up at John,

"Do you promise to let me make the medical decisions from now on?"

'Yes,"

"Didn't quite hear that,"

"It's all you're getting," John laughed and reached down to pull Sherlock back to his feet, slipping his arm around Sherlock's waist. They moved further into the room – but John being just a little pre-occupied in making sure Sherlock stayed clear of the piles of paper, books, magazines and whatever else was on the floor, didn't notice one coming his way – and ended up tripping himself and Sherlock up.

'That's the second time in two days," John groaned, as Sherlock fell on him, and winced as the stitches were pulled. Perhaps it really _was_ karma, because that was when Mrs, Hudson decided that she should pop in for a little visit, 'I'm sorry to interrupt dears," John's head spun so fast the _crack_ produced probably could've been heard from downstairs, "Interrupt? You're not interrupting," he said, wondering why his voice just got so high, and Sherlock nodded,

"John fell," he added,

'If you say so, dear," Mrs. Hudson walked in and pulled Sherlock off John, helping him onto the sofa. The medic got to his feet, knowing that his cheeks were the same colour as the crimson shirt that Sherlock had opted to wear. _Why didn't Sherlock ever go red?_ John thought, feeling a little miffed that only he had to show outward signs of embarrassment.

John joined Sherlock on the couch, rubbing his neck as Mrs. Hudson fussed over Sherlock,

"…I had been wondering what on earth that sound was that night," she said,

"Yes Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed,

"Don't you two go running off like that ever again!" she turned to John this time and he nodded as well,

'Yes Mrs. Hudson. Don't you worry," he got to his feet, "Sherlock needs to get his rest now," he said, looking at the detective,

"Oh, of course," Mrs Hudson headed for the door, "Just came up here to check on you boys," John smiled warmly,

"Thankyou," he said and she nodded,

"Very well then, goodnight," Mrs Hudson walked out of the flat and closed the door with a soft click.

John turned back to Sherlock. He walked over to couch and sat down, and tried to ignore the way he liked how Sherlock immediately moved closer to him, "Do you want to get takeaway?" John asked, and Sherlock cracked one eye opened,

"Stupid question," he mumbled sleepily,

"Not that stupid," John retorted, "You're moody, sometimes you want a nice home-cooked meal,"

'Fine. Take away it is," Sherlock replied, closing his eye. John got back to his feet and walked to the phone.

Fifteen minutes later a knock sounded at the door, and John opened it, 'Mr Holmes and Watson?" the boy asked and John nodded, noticing that it was a different boy this time,

"What happened to Tony?" he asked,

'Sick," the boy shivered in the breeze as John payed him. With a small smile and thanks, he left.

Shutting the door and cutting off the chilly wind, John made his way up the stairs with the steaming package of noodles.

He walked into the flat and kicked the door shut with his leg, "Sherlock!" he called, as Sherlock had disappeared,

"In the bedroom!"

'Why?'

"Decided I needed to change," John shook his head. Sometimes he never could understand that man. He set Sherlock's box down on the table and took up residence in his favourite chair. Flicking on the TV, he opened the box and started eating.

Just as Sherlock came limping down the stairs, and a car blew up on the TV, John chocked as he bit down on something that was definitely _not_ noddles. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as his friend removed the paper from his mouth,

'Really John, I thought you'd at least realise that you were eating paper" he commented dryly, and John shot him a glare, before turning to the paper. It was typed, "Um, Sherlock?" he said, reading through it quickly,

"Yes John?" Sherlock replied,

"We may have a slight problem," John's eyes were wide and even from his position Sherlock could tell that he was worried – this made Sherlock worry. The consulting detective got to his feet and walked over, taking the soggy bit of paper from John,

_If you're interested in finding Moriarty, I suggest you meet me at the docks at exactly midnight. One minute later, my dear fellow and you will miss me and your chance of finding Moriarty._

_Bring Sherlock along with you. I swear, he won't be harmed, although he is probably reading this right now…so he'll come anyway._

_I myself am not Moriarty. In fact, you know me, John. I know you two. I know that eight months ago, in that bunker you saved that terrorists life. I also know how you feel. I suggest you rely on your instincts._

_Twelve o'clock. Dock three hundred and twelve. Tonight. And please, no Lestrade._

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes bright as the flashes on the TV,

'We have to go," he said, his voice almost breathless,

'Sherlock! It could be a trap!" John got to his feet, not that it put him in eye level with Sherlock, but it made him feel better anyway,

"So?" Sherlock stepped forward, almost losing his balance but righting himself again. He grabbed John by both his shoulders, and looked into his eyes, 'Tell me you don't want to see that bastard shot with the needle and I'll back down," he said, his dark eyes boring into John's tawny ones. Sherlock took a moment to consider that he really liked John's eyes before focusing back on the topic at hand. John was not about to back down,

"You can barely stand!" he exclaimed, annoyed that he couldn't put any force in his voice because Sherlock's scent was distracting him,

'I'll manage." suddenly Sherlock grinned, "That's what you're there for," John sighed,

"Fine," he muttered, and Sherlock looked like he might just jump for joy. John raised a finger,

"One thing goes wrong, though," he said and Sherlock looked at him, "and you're running, do you hear?" Sherlock nodded, paused a second, scooped John up for a hug that threw any coherent thoughts out of John's head, before going as fast as he could to get his stuff from upstairs.

John glanced at the clock. _Five twenty-three. I only have to deal with Sherlock for another six and a half hours. Great_. But he found himself smiling. God, he loved danger...one day though, it was going to get him killed.

* * *

Okay. Quick notes.

-Tony the delivery boy, completely random and unrelated

- Note for John very related.

Whatcha think? Good? Bad?

Aza :)


	8. Supposed to be so simple

Hello! Yeah, i managed to get the chapter up and procrastinate on homework. Feeling good :D

Thankyou to everyone who had reviewed and read, you make my day.

* * *

**Chapter 8:**

The water was completely black and reflected the nighttime skyline of London beautifully, it's crystal surface broken only by the occasional drop of rain that fell from the darkened, stormy sky. John wished that the moon was out, at least then he could where the hell he was going. Sherlock walked, for once, beside him, dressed in his massive coat and customary scarf.

The docks were empty this time of night, the shadows dark and menacing. Every boat and ship anchored had its lights turned off and the creaking as the currents moved them up and down their hulls scraping against the docks was the only thing that broke the heavy silence. Well, that and Sherlock,

"John," he whispered, leaning in towards John,

"Yes?'

"What dock number was it again?" John pulled away to look at Sherlock's face properly and caught the smirk at his lip before it disappeared,

"The great Sherlock Holmes is asking me when his memory is photographic?" he asked, turning so he was facing the front again, and not tracing the lines of his partners face. Sherlock took a longer stride and stepped in front of John, facing him so that he couldn't go anywhere. John sighed, stopping and shifting his weight onto his right leg,

'We're wasting time," his breath fogged up in the chilly air,

"It's eleven twenty, John. Your contact said Midnight," Sherlock replied, rocking slightly on his heels. John kept his gaze locked on Sherlock's; the latter's dark eyes sparkling with amusement and excitement.

Sighing in exasperation, John broke eye contact and stepped around the stubborn detective, "Three hundred and twelve, Sherlock," he said and the detective, after swearing softly because he jarred his stitches, caught up to him quickly, falling back in step with John, "Do you really think you're going to need that weapon John?" The doctor looked up at Sherlock and then his hand automatically went around the back to his waistline, "You can never know," he replied,

'Really? I always know,"

'Which is why you've got a bullet hole in your side," Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

'Geez, snappy," he muttered and for the hundredth time today John had to assure himself that he was not dealing with a five year-old but a grown man who was perfectly capable of – "John!" John's focused snapped back as Sherlock dragged him to the side of the pier, leaning against one of the smaller yachts,

'What is it?" John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leant out so he could see what Sherlock saw earlier. A lone man was standing at the end of the pier about two hundred metres away from their current position.

"That's him, I assume," John took in the width of the shoulders and the shoulder length hair that was being lightly ruffled by the gentle wind,

"Okay," Sherlock suddenly moved and John lost his balance, tipping out over the water, keeping himself dry by grabbing the anchor's taught chain and hanging there. Sherlock turned with innocent eyes, to meet John's slightly panicked, but mostly angry glare, "Sorry," he said, and John shook his head, still glaring at Sherlock before pushing himself off the chain, back onto land and taking the lead, walking up the empty pier towards their man.

From behind John, Sherlock frowned, he had wanted to test a theory – what would John look like when he was wet. Apparently, people tended to look better then. Personally, he'd never wanted to see anyone wet until now.

As they approached the man standing in front of them, Sherlock pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Plenty of time for that plan later. For the moment, they had to deal with their current problem. John stopped a metre away from their 'friend' and he turned just as Sherlock fell into step next to John taking in the appearance of the mystery man.

He was wearing dress shoes and a high cut and quality suit – the type that John always associated with Mycroft – except as the man turned and the light fell across his face John felt like he had been kicked in the gut, "Eagle…" John breathed, and Sherlock was startled to see all the colour drain from John's face as he remembered – he remembered what he so desperately tried to forget.

* * *

_The early morning fog was heavy; it's sweet coolness a blessing, a relief from the heat of the day that was on its way. The sun on the horizon was constantly moving as its light began to cut through the haze that lay on the temporarily moist ground. John smiled as he opened his eyes. There was nothing above him, but the distorted blue sky, and the air was so fresh – It was mornings like this that made him forget the blood that covered his hands by nightfall. Yesterday had been horrible. He stitched so many men up; he had lost count – as had everyone else._

_Sitting up slowly, John changed out of his clothes and into his uniform, the camouflage comfortable, and made his bed as quickly as possible, wanting to get out and enjoy the morning. His mates were already outside, indulging in a light-hearted cricket match, the ball bouncing relatively well on the hard sand below and John walked out to join them. Greeted by their calls and pats on the back, he opted to watch and joined the others on the sidelines, stealing a piece of toast from the gunny. Just as the thump of the ball hitting the bat echoed around the space, a bang sounded from the other side of the medical unit. John froze as gunfire rang out, as did everyone else there – then suddenly, everyone was moving._

_They ran back towards their tent, grabbing and loading their guns, their bodies responding like clockwork, while their minds were a mess of emotions – mostly fear. John clicked the clip into place and ran out of the tent, to be met with the sight of their general, Scott 'Eagle' Wood, leading a group of militant's in. For the second time, everyone froze, and John spoke up,_

'_Sir?" he asked hesitantly, and the general grinned,_

"_Sorry," was all he said, before opening fire on his own troops. The last thing that John remembered, and it still gives him nightmares, was the way the general laughed as his men fell, John included, with a bullet to the shoulder, and the way the general then went over them, picking up their valuables, taking their guns and leaving the medical unit, bleeding on the ground, as the first strong rays of sun broke through the fog, and lit the dying figures, providing them a beautiful scene for their last breaths.

* * *

_

John focused on keeping his breathing calm and ordered himself not to feel the pain in his shoulder, and not to suddenly feel the need for comfort. Eagle stood in front of him, his face an image of the calm John was attempting to achieve. Sherlock, instead, took over, as he realized his friend was unable. He wanted to hug John, something he wouldn't have dreamed about doing a couple of months ago. He wanted to pull him close and tell him that he's okay, but he couldn't.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, the sound of his voice loud in the frigid air,

"Why don't you tell Sherlock, John?" Eagle turned to the medic, who swallowed before finding the words,

"He's the bastard who betrayed us," he said, happy to find that his voice was controlled, "Let's go Sherlock. I don't make deals with the devil," Sherlock furrowed his brow. This must have something to do with Afghanistan, which would mean it's a sensitive issue, which would also mean that he had to put John first. Sherlock nodded more to himself than John. He wasn't going to hurt John; he didn't want _anyone _to hurt John,

'Right, let's go," Sherlock grabbed John's arm and dragged him away.

They walked quickly and were about to turn onto the main pier when Eagle called out, 'John!" Both Sherlock and John ignored him and kept walking, "John!" the second call was accompanied by a familiar click and John swore, before spinning on his heel, months of anger coming back, locked away, buried in some part of his mind, exploding, "What? What you bloody bastard?" he yelled, startling even Sherlock, "What the _fuck_ do you want? Haven't you done enough damage?" Eagle laughed,

"I did always say that you had quite a mouth on you," he said and John felt his temper rising, and Eagle continued,

"Listen, Its about Moriarty,"

'He sent you to kill us did he? He's getting lower and lower, associating with pigswill like you," John shouted back, and Eagle chuckled,

"No, dear John, he didn't. I'm merely delivering a message,"

'From who?"

"No matter," Eagle reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope,

"Since when were you delivery boy?" asked John,

"Ever since I wanted to repent for my sins," John fell silent and Sherlock looked between the two of them,

'Anything else?" asked Sherlock,

"Nope." With that, Eagle turned around and walked straight off the pier, at least, it looked like he did.

An engine started up and then he was gone, whisked away into the night, the sound of the engine fading as he moved further away, the boats once again becoming the only moving things around the consulting detective and the doctor.

Both John and Sherlock were eyeing the white envelope that lay on the ground. Sherlock turned to face John and turned him bodily, grabbing both his shoulders and putting lowering his head to John's eyes level,

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice huskier than he intended and John nodded, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath,

"C'mon, let's go and see what has been left for us," Sherlock took John's hand quite unconsciously and led him down the pier.

Sherlock crouched and bent down to pick it up. It was quite heavy and water proofed, in case it was going to rain. John took the letter from Sherlock and looked it over,

"Open it here or at home?" Sherlock was about to answer when a thud behind John made him look up. John raised an eyebrow, and turned to face the yacht behind him. It was as still as the other ships, "What was that?" he asked and Sherlock cocked his head to the side,

'It was either the yacht bumping against the pier, or it was someone moving up there sent here to kill us,"

'Little bloody ray of sunshine, aren't you?" John started walking along the pier again and Sherlock caught up to him,

"You know you can't live with me. Little ray of sunshine or not,"

"True that," John muttered so soft Sherlock almost missed it. The detective's heart skipped a beat. No, it couldn't mean anything. Why would it mean something? John was a completely heterosexual man, wasn't he?

So caught up in these thoughts, Sherlock missed the second thump to sound from yet another boat they walked past. John stopped walking and grabbed Sherlock's arm to bring him to the present,

"Sherlock," he whispered. He didn't get any further than that.

A grenade flew out from the boat and John reacted with the speed of a bullet. He shoved Sherlock aside so that both of them fell into the water, sinking as they went, thrown even further down as the explosion went off. Debris flew high into the air and shot downwards through the water, propelled by the explosive. John, more intent on getting Sherlock away from the explosion, didn't get down fast enough and felt the piece of wood go through his leg, ripping the muscle to pieces, as if it were nothing more that paper. Swearing silently, he grabbed onto Sherlock, the pain racing up through his body, his grip tightening, afraid to let go.

The world was watery and blue, the red haze from above, filtering down, but not warming the water of the Thames, which was in the minus degrees, the cold seeming to soak through every pore of both John's and Sherlock's being. Sherlock could never remember panic such as this as he watched the water around John's leg go red, and his flat mates eyes flutter close, before being forced open by pure willpower.

Everything was going black, as Sherlock dragged John upwards, and just for a second, before he succumbed to the pull and respite offered by unconsciousness, John thought about how much he really wanted to tell Sherlock something…but he couldn't quite remember what…it was supposed to be…supposed to be simple…

* * *

Alright. I told you there'd be more this Chapter. So, did you like it? I'm meant to be doing homework. Oh well, it can wait.

Please review? Hands up if you think I'm evil( i do...) *evil laugh*

poor John. :(

Aza


	9. Pillar of strength

Hey guys!

I'd just like to apologise for any language that is common only in Australia, like the 'real' before 'real estate agents' Sorry! :(

I may have well just have made this chapter a right-royal stuff up. So sorry for that, hope you enjoy *worried expression*

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**Chapter 9:**

Sherlock broke the surface as the last of the debris, thrown high by the explosion, fell into the water. He sucked in a huge breath, his lungs burning, and proceeded to bring John back up to the surface. He was terrified to see John's eyes closed; he didn't want to think what that could mean. Thanking his mother for insisting he join the swimming team, Sherlock struck out towards the pier, keeping John's head above the water.

The light from the fire was throwing indents over the water and making the black surface look like it had deep recesses in it, dark, looming as Sherlock swam across them, his aching muscles screaming their protest, as he ignored them, desperate to get John to dry land, to see whether he was okay.

Finally, the pier was in sight and Sherlock found new strength to swim the rest of the way. Hoisting John onto the remainder of the pier and pulling himself up, Sherlock laid John flat and lowered his head and turned so his ear was next to John. He felt nothing no warm breath rising from the prone figure below him.

Panic flaring and clenching his heart in a vice like grip, Sherlock started compressions. _One, two, three, four_…John was still not breathing, how many minutes had it been? More than three…? _Five, six, seven, eight, _Sherlock gritted his teeth. His hair was slicked back, his clothes heavy on his body, outlining his lean frame against the London skyline, _nine, ten, eleven, twelve,_ This couldn't happen. John had saved him. Saved his life so many times, over and over again, and lived through it. He was _not _about to let John slip away. Not…not _his_ John. _My John, where did that come from?_

Sherlock felt a strange burning sensation in his eyes, as he continued with the compressions; his vision blurred with tears, he realised with a start, for only the second time in his life, _thirteen, fourteen, fifteen,_ barely thinking about what he was doing, he brought his mouth to John's and breathed out, feeling his friend's chest rise and then fall. He breathed out again. Gentle rise, gentle fall and then suddenly, John's entire body arched up as he drew a breath in on his own and then he was chocking. Sherlock rolled John over as his body expelled the unwanted material. John's entire body shook as the world came back into focus, Sherlock, sitting over him, hand on his back, rubbing, muttering something, _Sherlock never mutters_ John thought.

The doctor slowly sat up, resting his weight on his hands. The smell of burning wood was strong in the air, its smell sweet but at the same time bitter. The sound of the fire crackling was loud in his ears, and he was freezing. His clothes were wet and heavy and his leg was throbbing, sending bullets of pain running up his leg. He also realised he had a broken rib; from the way breathing was incredibly uncomfortable. Swallowing, he turned his gaze back on Sherlock.

The detective still had his hand on John's back and was scrutinizing him with the same intensity that he did a crime scene. "Sherlock," it was a whisper, "Sherlock?" he asked again, unable to raise his voice,

"Yes John?" his voice low, still smooth as ever, like honey and milk, soothing to all the senses and suddenly, the leg and ribs were forgotten. It didn't matter to John anymore, all that mattered was Sherlock. Sherlock who was sitting beside him, Sherlock who was staring at him like nothing else mattered, and Sherlock who he had never wanted to kiss more than now.

John felt his heart rate accelerate. What was wrong with him? Who honestly did these sorts of things? Who thought about kissing their flatmate, when they were injured, on a pier in London docks? _apparently I__ do._ John suddenly chuckled, breaking the spell that held both him and Sherlock enraptured in each other, and brought the pain John had momentarily forgotten, back.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John's face and looked at his leg, as John winced as a wind that hadn't been there before blew across his leg, seeming to set it on fire as much as the burning heaps of wood around them were, "John," Sherlock breathed, crawling over, pushing John back so he was lying flat against the pier, and focused on his back leg. Had it been daylight, and had they not been completely soaked from head to foot, so cold that the north pole looked relatively tropical, John would've noticed how dark Sherlock's eyes had become and how his pulse point, hidden under his collar, was thundering as he tried to control his emotions – something he hadn't had to deal with for a very long time. In fact, he hadn't had to deal with any emotions in his adult life.

Sherlock ripped what remained of John's pant leg off and took stock of the wound that was bleeding profusely, the piece of wood protruding out of in,

"What do I do?" Sherlock asked, running his hands lightly around the wound but not touching it directly;

Sherlock's hands felt so warm, so comforting, and John closed his eyes, relishing the feeling which was light on his skin, wanting to feel more then instantly feeling guilty, Sherlock's question not registering,

"John, what do I do?" the consulting detective asked again and John raised his head, hearing his this time. Though he was a talented surgeon, he was sure that he would not be able to do anything for himself,

"You need to call an ambulance,' he said, gently, and Sherlock nodded, cursing silently that he hadn't thought of this himself, so caught up in these completely _unnecessary _and entirely unholy thoughts of John. He pulled his dripping phone from his pocket and stared at it, because it wouldn't turn on – the water had gotten under the protective covering.

"I don't think that's an option," he said, his voice much quieter than normal,

"And I left my phone at home," John moved his leg, and wasn't surprised to see the boards of the dock soaking in his own blood. Sherlock blinked at the sight before ripping his coat off and picking John's leg up with the gentleness of a mother with her baby. He wrapped the coat around tightly, and John let out a string of oaths as he felt the wood move, it's rough edges digging into his flesh.

Sherlock bit his lip as he lowered John's leg again. The man was panting with the effort of not yelling and Sherlock leaned over, brushing the lock of his hair, which had once been short, now grown out and straightened by the water, out of John's eyes. The doctor opened said eyes, and Sherlock didn't like the glazed look,

"We need to get to a hospital," Sherlock suddenly said and John laughed,

"How, Sherlock?" the detective sat on his haunches, ignoring the shivers running through his body and thought. Finally, he came to a decision, with a soft protest from John, he lifted the smaller man up, as he was actually quite light, when he wasn't wearing that many jumpers, and held him close to his body, "Police should be here soon, we'll wait for them on the road,"

John winced as his ribs were moved. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock, the detective had enough to worry about without John adding his own problems to the mix.

"Sherlock, put me down," the groan came out half-heartedly and John winced as the movement of Sherlock's steps jarred his leg and ribs again. Sherlock stayed silent as they walked, further away from the fire and John turned, so that he was facing Sherlock's chest, and the weight was off his injured ribs. He breathed in the scent of coffee and smiled slightly, nestling himself into the crook of Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock adjusted so that John was comfortable as he could be. John closed his eyes, Sherlock's warmth emanating and wrapping around him, like the morning summer sunlight, blazing down from the sky, bright and comfortable, safe and warm and he found he needed it. He needed Sherlock as much as he needed the light from the sun. Sherlock was like his pillar; sure, it was a pillar that drags him across London's rooftops one night and then cuddles up in his lap (with no sense of personal space) another. He needed Sherlock; because he would tell him, or rather, show him he was wanted. To make him more than just another boring person, going about their monotonous business in London.

Sherlock hated seeing the occasional wince as pain brought John back from whatever thoughts he was thinking. He hated not being able to move faster, not being able to take John from here in the blink of an eye and get him to a hospital. He wanted to run as fast as he could, carrying John and ease his suffering.

John moaned softly as Sherlock stumbled, the dark hiding a dip in the level of the pier and Sherlock stopped, sinking to his knees, and laying John back on the pier, "John?" the doctor's eyes opened, "Are you hurt anywhere else?" Sherlock's eyes ran over his friend's body, looking for signs of injury,

"No," but Sherlock didn't believe him one bit. He looked over John again, and then reached out a hand to the left side of John's chest and brought his hand down, gently. John jumped like he had been stung. The doctor groaned and mumbled something unintelligible, the sound deep down in his chest and Sherlock immediately let go, his hand instead coming up to stroke John's cheek. The doctor leaned into his touch, his eyes once again closed as he fought for control of the pain. He thought back to Afghanistan, controlled his breathing, waited for the pain to go away, and then suddenly there was something against his lips. Soft, tender…_Sherlock._ John's eyes opened and he found Sherlock leaning over him, his wet, wiry body pressing against his good side. Even as his brain was attempting to register what was happening, his mouth responded.

His lips parted slowly, and he ran his tongue over Sherlock's bottom lip, the taste of salt from the water and the flavour that was Sherlock, burning itself into his memory.

This seemed to bring Sherlock back, and the detective pulled away, but he was still close to John. Close enough to feel his every breath, to breathe in his aftershave, still lingering even after their dip. His entire body was pressed against the smaller man; his attention was on John and John alone. His breaths were coming in short gasps, his eyes were black and his pupils dilated. He had no clue what had come over him. John just looked so…amazing, it was strange. He had never actually done anything like this before. He'd never felt the urge to kiss a person and yet here he was, in the London docks, kissing John,

"Sherlock?" John's voice forced Sherlock to look back at him, and Sherlock saw how flushed the older man was, "What was that?"

"Saying sorry," Sherlock, replied, his eyes flicking away, and then looking back. He didn't now how he was feeling anymore, and he had lost track of time. How long had they been down here? He leaned over John and picked him up again. John stayed silent as Sherlock got to his feet, sirens sounding in the distance.

"I can hear sirens," Sherlock said, his voice rumbling through his chest,

"Sorry for what?" John persisted, but Sherlock kept looking straight ahead.

* * *

John stayed silent as they walked and he too, heard the sirens that Sherlock had picked up. He was wiling to bet that Mycroft had alerted authorities, as he was keeping a constant surveillance on both him and Sherlock, and found that while he was glad there was something to ease the pain, he much preferred Sherlock's method…if that was a method.

The walk back was silent, leaving Sherlock to consider his actions and what he could have just started. Why did he lean in? What made him kiss John Watson? Why did humans have this urge for contact? The feelings that it sent through his were strange. He remembered once when he saw an electric fence and then decided that he wanted to experiment with it and he touched it. That feeling, as soon as his lips met John's is what ran up and down his body. It awoke a longing in him he didn't even knew he had, and now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Finally, Sherlock reached the road and was greeted with the flashing blue and red lights. The police, who had been walking towards them, started running as they caught sight of Sherlock, stumbling up the steps, with the injured John. They tried to take John from him but he held on tighter and demanded an ambulance, which they complied with immediately.

As Sherlock laid John down on the back seat of the police car, while they waited for the ambulance, he noticed how much paler John was, and how his hand came away red, when he brushed it along the leg. Sherlock also noticed how John held on as he tried to let go. Maybe some good could come out of this night?

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I am getting a feeling that you are going to agree with me that in this chapter I am sprouting complete nonsense. Any comments will be welcomed; I really think this was a little cliché. Next chapter will be better. Crap mood :(

Aza

P.S. Thanks for sticking with me for this long :D


	10. Row, row, row your boat

Thank you to everyone who had reviewed or just read. Apologies for any grammar or spelling mistakes!

Feeling better than last time. Got accepted into the school musical! *cheers like an idiot*

Anyway, on with the story. Oh and please don't kill me! I'm just...yeah :D

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**Chapter 10:**

Storm clouds were gathering above, darkening the night and making the flashing red and blue lights of the police car look even brighter.

Sherlock noticed that John was actually falling asleep and realised this couldn't happen. He lifted John's head up and slid under in, so that John's head was on his lap.

"Sherlock?' there was a smile at his lips and the detective looked down into the tawny eyes below him,

"Yes?"

"I need to tell you something…" John drew in a shuddering breath and Sherlock felt the tremors run through John's body and the repressed sound of pain,

"What is it?" Sherlock couldn't control his face anymore. He let the worry show. He let John see how much he was scared, for his friend, for them,

"I…" but John didn't get any further. Two gunshots sounded from outside, breaking the quiet of the night. Sherlock's head snapped up to see both policemen fall to the ground, but no shooter was in sight. The docks were still and empty.

'Shit," he muttered, his eyes flashing and John shifted underneath him,

'What's happening?" he muttered, his words slurring,

"The police are dead," John stifled an oath, as Sherlock made to move out from underneath John,

"Where are you going?" John sat up, a note of panic in his voice, and he grabbed Sherlock's sleeve weakly,

"To get that bastard,"

"You can't go anywhere! You're injured!" John protested and Sherlock laid a hand on the man's shoulder, "I won't let him near you,"

John furrowed his brow, trying to keep up. His vision was blurry in front of his eyes as the abuse that had been heaped on his body was hitting back at him, 'Which bastard are we talking about here?" he asked, sounding a little drunk,

'That one," Sherlock suddenly shoved the door open and leap out of the car. He slammed the door shut as a shot shattered the glass. John swore as glass rained down on him and as another, louder bang echoed from the heavens above, thunder seeming to shake the ground below them. Sherlock stopped, opened the door again, and shoved John down to the floor, gasping as he pulled his stitches but ignoring it. John was about to say something but Sherlock was already standing up again.

The world's only consulting detective shut the door again and ran towards the police officer, grabbing the gun off the dead man, just as another shot buried itself into the ground a centimetre away from his foot "YOU MISSED!" he yelled, turning in circle, trying toe isolate the point of shooting as the lightning lit the docks, the boats flashing white before returning to the blackness created by the night,

"Show yourself!" Sherlock yelled again, his eyes circling like a hawk, watching the boats anchored in the harbour, and as they titled slightly before rocking back to their normal position with the movements of the currents. Suddenly, Sherlock noticed that one boat, on his left, was leaning several centimetres more than it should be. Lightning flashed again and Sherlock was running. Thunder echoed off the water and bounced off the hard objects, ringing in Sherlock's ears as he ran towards the boat, his heart beating in time with his footsteps.

Grabbing the anchor of the ship, Sherlock hoisted himself up, his natural flexibility allowing him to climb on with relative easy. He stood on the railing and as the man on board raised his gun to fire point blank at Sherlock, Sherlock jumped. Both of them went flying, and Sherlock felt the stitches break as he fell. Scrambling to his feet Sherlock ducked as a blow was swung at his head. Using the rigging of the yacht, he reached up and lifted himself, ploughing both his feet directly into his opponents chest.

The man stumbled backwards, holding onto his ribs, pure hate in his eyes as lightning lit up the yacht, the light reflecting at odd angles, lighting up the man's face,

"Moriarty…" Sherlock breathed, his voice steady, but seeping with poison, as a stone sunk into the pit of his stomach.

"Sherlock," Moriarty grinned, straightening and wincing, "How are we today?" Sherlock kept his mouth closed, and Moriarty smiled again, the boat beneath them rocking as the winds began to pick up, and the storm that had been threatening arrived, "I see John's been teaching you your manners,"

"Don't talk about him," said Sherlock, the reply quicker than he intended, "This is between you and me, no one else,"

"It is about someone else, Sherlock. You care for someone now, see? You're not a living island anymore," Moriarty moved to the right and Sherlock copied, taking the same amount of steps, so they ended up still facing each other, just in different positions,

'So what are you going to do?" Sherlock cocked the gun in his hand,

"I told you what I'm going to do. I'm going to burn the heart out of you," the maniac smiled as he said it, his dark hair falling in his eyes, his suit still immaculate, despite the nights excursions,

"Who sent the letter?' Sherlock suddenly asked, "Was that entire thing just a distraction?" Sherlock watched the psychopath's features and saw the twitch in his right eyebrow, and it clicked into place,

"So you didn't send Eagle?" It was Sherlock's turn to smirk, "and you want the letter?" Everything began to make sense now, the original attack was part of the game, the assassin was meant to finish things off…but it didn't work. So Moriarty decided to do it himself. Tonight was just another opportune chance, because…ah yes, of course - he had been following them.

These thoughts went through Sherlock's head quicker than it took the next crack of thunder to make him focus on the situation in front of him, "Do you want the letter?" Sherlock asked again,

"I'll just take it off your dead body," Moriarty replied and Sherlock scoffed,

"May I just say, remember last time you tried to kill me? You almost died yourself,"

"But I didn't" The wind whistled as it passed through the finer holes in the rigging and Sherlock gritted his teeth as the sound sent his eardrums vibrating. He needed to get rid of Moriarty _right _now,

"Moriarty," he started but the man threw his hands wide,

'Why so formal, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice loud, despite the building wind that threatened to rip the words right from their mouths, "Call me Jim,"

"Would you prefer Tommy?" Sherlock growled back, taking a step forward as Moriarty took a step backwards,

"Well, yes, it's sort of my alter ego," said Moriarty and Sherlock laughed, the deep sound echoing of the boat, but it held none of the warmth it usually did whenever he _did_ laugh – for John,

"An alter ego apart from the murderer in you?" he asked, the scathing tone sharp enough to cut glass,

"Yeah, something like that," Sherlock shook his head, and felt sudden anger coursing through him, as the man in front of him smirked.

Everything that he had done was coming back to Sherlock, every last murder, every note; every word that the man said was coming back. The blood, the bodies, the murder. Suddenly, Sherlock broke the distance barrier and leapt forwards, grabbing Moriarty by his lapels and knocking the gun out of his hand. Together, they tumbled down, the thud reverberating and adding to the symphony of sounds. Moriarty grunted as they landed, the wind knocked out of him by Sherlock's weight. The detective pressed the gun to the psychopaths forehead, "Shut up," he said, and Moriarty laughed. Sherlock pressed the gun against his temple even harder, "Shut up," he ordered again,

"Nope," Suddenly Moriarty bucked and Sherlock moaned in pain as the villain jabbed him in the side, and was sure that his white shirt was turning red. Sherlock was thrown off as Moriarty got his feet again and lunged for the gun. Sherlock stuck his leg out and Moriarty tripped, landing face first on the boat as the rain suddenly started to hammer down, with a force that Sherlock had never experienced before, seeming to be made out of knives rather than water.

Moriarty growled and spun, landing on top of Sherlock and knocking him a blow that split his lip. Using a move that he learned out of necessity more than anything else, Sherlock flipped himself over, and Moriarty fell, again, a loud crack sounding from his wrist. He howled in pain as Sherlock spun, noticing the blood oh his fingers and tasting it on his lips as he pinned Moriarty down. To anyone who wasn't aware this was a fight it would have looked like something completely different…

* * *

Sherlock kneed Moriarty in the ribs, where he had struck before, and the man groaned and swore at the same time. The boat heaved as the waters got unsteadier and the wind blew stronger, pulling on the sails, that weren't so neatly folded above them. In the distance, sirens of the approaching ambulance could be heard.

Moriarty punched Sherlock's vocal cords and the detective gagged rolling of Moriarty. The villain got to his feet, staggering as his ribs, no doubt cracked, moved cutting into his flesh, and he bent over double, swearing in three different languages. He turned to face Sherlock, and raised the gun he just picked up. The detective sat up slowly, unable to speak, and locked eyes with Moriarty. A year…a year since their dangerous game began and now he was looking down the barrel of the man's gun.

The rain poured down heavier, and dripped down Sherlock's nose, which he watched it with interest, his hair plastered to his head. Moriarty actually looked a little irritated by the fact that water was on the gun and on him. Breaths passed and Sherlock realised that any could be his last. As they sat there, seemingly stuck in that position, the boat was moving an alarming amount and both Moriarty and Sherlock looked down as a groan, not coming from either of them sounded. Moriarty looked over the side of the boat, the water was moving at an unbelievably fast, which meant that it had been raining up north…which meant that the anchor had better be heavy enough to keep them in place.

Sherlock was thinking along the same lines, "Get it over and done with," he said. The Sirens he heard earlier faded and Sherlock groaned internally. John was losing blood, probably really fast. There was no on there for his friend, and he was currently in a rather desperate situation with a gun pointed at him, so he couldn't go and make sure he was alright, despite really, really wanting to,

'You want to die now?" asked Moriarty, his voice amused,

"Does it matter?" Sherlock replied, "This…this _game _is going to continue forever," Moriarty cocked his head to the side, his arm as steady as the rain,

"Yes, I suppose it would," He was about to add something else, when the boat gave a sudden lurch – and they were moving! Moriarty forgot about Sherlock and ran to the side as the boat broke away from the dock. Sherlock appeared at his shoulder, both men staring at the broken rope. Moriarty started to climb onto the railing, but Sherlock grabbed his shirt and dragged him back. This could be his chance. He tried to jump off and onto the docks, but Moriarty wasn't about to let his off so easily. He grabbed his belt, and dragged Sherlock back on the boat, punching him in the solar plexus. Sherlock returned fire with an upper cut and a blow to the sternum, which should have knocked any sane person out – Moriarty only looked a little dazed and dropped the gun. As the boat suddenly spun, picked up by the ridiculously strong currents, both Moriarty and Sherlock were thrown to the other side.

The vessel started making it's way along the Thames and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Sherlock glanced at Moriarty, knocked out cold because he hit his head on the side of the boat, _maybe I should throw him overboard and let him sink?_ Sherlock grinned at the thought, then the smile faded and he sighed. "Damn you John," he muttered, "One year with you and already, I've developed a moral compass," he shook his head and got up. He walked over to where the controls of the boat were. Now, how were you supposed to steer this thing? Sherlock sat on the captain's seat and stared at the controls.

* * *

Back at the docks, John had pulled himself up and made it out the door and into the rain which was coming down in sheets now, but could go no further, because every time he moved, the world spun and his head throbbed. He wished Sherlock were here, he wished they were home right now, and he wished they'd never come for the stupid letter in the first place. As exhaustion began to take over again for the hundredth time in so many days, John heard the ambulance. He was going to be alright…but what about Sherlock?

* * *

Sherlock and Moriarty are going to get to know each other very well *cheeky laugh*

That's the tenth chapter, guys. More to come. Hope you're enjoying so far! Oh, and tell me if anyone was OOC, I'm still learning. :D

Luv yas!

Review?

Aza


	11. You want to die?

Hey all!

Quick apologies – I have no idea where anything in London is. I'm sorry for random hospitals popping up where there should be houses, or other buildings. Oh, and for random hospital names.

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**Chapter 11:**

The rain pounded down and Sherlock grimaced as he battled with the steering wheel. The Thames was empty and the heavy rain obscured buildings on its banks. The river was moving at a pace that meant they were travelling way faster than Sherlock was comfortable with. _This is probably what I get for being bored so often_. He let a smile grace his sharp features, before grunting as he steered the boat away from the banks of the Thames. He was just a little young to die. Lightning lit up the water below, and Sherlock saw, in front of him, a small creature struggling against the currents.

Before he could think too much about helping it, the wheel suddenly spun, striking him on the lower abdomen and he fell to the boards beneath, gasping in pain, his eyes closed and his teeth gritted,

"I was about to hit you," Sherlock opened his eyes to find Moriarty looking at him, cocking his eyebrow, "but the boat decided that it would do that for me," Sherlock was about to reply, when, suddenly, God decided that he hadn't had enough. A bolt of lightning flashed from the sky and hit the top of their boat – the shelter that covered the control panels, and fizzed out the control panel itself. Sherlock jumped as the electricity ran through him, but the part that the lightning hit fell on Moriarty. The psychopath was thrown back with the force and was only kept on the boat because of the high tail end. Sherlock got to his feet, ignoring Moriarty's calls for help and went to the side of the boat. The railing was cold as everything else was as Sherlock leaned over the side, his keen eyes scanning the water until he found what he wanted. As he had suspected, the body he had seen was, in fact, a dog. The dog had latched onto the side of the boat and Sherlock, who had always had a soft spot for dogs, reached down and grabbed the dog by the scruff of his, or her neck, thankful that the side of the boat was low enough to allow him to do this. The dog whined as boat spun, completely out of control, and Sherlock dragged it up, dropping it as the boat bucked, throwing him against the side.

He felt the blood, from the bullet wound, seep through his clothes and the dog, which he realized was a German shepherd, looked up at him with big eyes, "Don't look at me like that," Sherlock mumbled as Moriarty reappeared, a cut running down the side of his face. He stumbled over to where Sherlock was as the boat continued its erratic journey along the river, "It looks why don't need to kill each other," he said, his breaths coming in short gasps. Sherlock looked at him, and then they both reacted at the same time. Sherlock swung high and Jim swung low.

The result was two men, in a lot of pain, sitting on the lower deck of a boat that was wildly out of control, travelling down the Thames with a German Shepherd who wondered whether it might have better if she were just left in the river.

* * *

John woke to find himself hooked up to several machines with an annoyed Lestrade yelling at the doctors, "I don't give a damn! I have to tell him,"

"You can't!" the doctor whispered back, making shushing gestures with his hands, 'He's been through enough emotional stress as it is," John lifted his head, and pushed himself into a sitting position, unnoticed by the doctor and the inspector. He winced as he put pressure on his left leg, and raised an eyebrow at Lestrade's demeanour, and the fact that the man looked like he might throttle the poor doctor,

'Lestrade," John's voice was a lot louder than he expected and both Lestrade and the doctor spun around.

"John!" Lestrade walked forward and stopped at the end of the bed, taking in John's bemused expression, "How long have you been awake?'

"Long enough to hear you harassing the doctor," he said, nodding towards said professional, who also looked ready to take this outside with Lestrade,

"Right," Lestrade sighed and ran his hands through his hair, 'Two officers are dead, John," he said and John nodded,

"I know, I tried to check on them-" he was cut off,

'That was incredibly foolish," the doctor scolded, 'You were injured, it was raining outside, you'd already lost so much blood, and you didn't know when help was arriving," John nodded again,

"Tell me what?" he asked looking between the doctor and Lestrade, remembering that their fighting is what woke him in the first place,

"We can't-" the doctor started but Lestrade cut him off,

"Do you know where Sherlock is?' Lestrade asked, unable to wait any longer, and John's eyes widened, registering the fact that his best friend was not in the room,

'What do you mean do I know where Sherlock is?" he asked, and his heart rate monitor jumped, as Lestrade groaned and placed his head in his hands,

"Sherlock's missing," he mumbled through them and John felt a dead weight drop onto his shoulders.

* * *

Back on the Thames, Sherlock was the first to get his feet. He couldn't feel anything anymore. What his many wounds hadn't numbed, the driving rain had. The dog padded over to the cockpit, which was considerably drier and crawled into a corner where a small blanket had been kept. On the other side of the deck Moriarty got to his feet too,

"Sherlock," he called, and the detective looked up,

"What?"

"We might have a bigger problem that each other," Moriarty nodded towards the control panel, which, despite not being turned on was fizzing, and even through the torrents that were coming down, smoke was rising. Sherlock groaned. He limped forward, dragging the dog out from underneath it.

The dog, _no, puppy,_ Sherlock realised curled into a ball as Moriarty dragged the lifeboat out from it's storage place. He put it on the deck and it inflated.

Not waiting for Sherlock, Moriarty threw it over the side, holding onto the lead rope. Sherlock realised what the man was about to do and ran forward, throwing the poor puppy into the waiting boat. Is slid to the very end and held on as the men above fought for the lead rope.

The control panel was actually on fire now, and the sizzling of cold water meeting the increasingly hot panel was adding to the cacophony of Sherlock and Moriarty's swear words and the thunder above as they fought, Moriarty kicking Sherlock on the upper thigh, and then stumbling backwards as Sherlock threw a cut towards his neck.

Sherlock twisted Moriarty's wrist and wrestled the rope from his control. He then, unerringly, jumped over the side, and into the boat. Just as he grabbed the paddles, Moriarty threw himself over the side as well and landed on top of Sherlock. He settled himself and there was a tense minute as the two men stared at each other, both considering how to get rid of the other when there was a small explosion from the boat which was still next to them.

Both realising what would happen if they stayed here for much longer, they grabbed a paddle each and started steering the boat through the currents and away from the boat. The currents of the river, a living beast almost, took them in the same direction, and buffeted them like a plastic bag caught in the wind and Sherlock could feel his entire body heating up as he and Jim struggled to move the life raft away from the boat. The puppy stared with wide eyes as the river threw them left and right, before giving them a seconds respite before starting again. They were paddling sitting backwards and were ten metres away from the boat when the fire, blazing quite merrily, despite the rain, reached the petrol. The entire thing exploded, and the water was calm for a second. Sherlock grabbed the startled puppy, held onto the paddle, and felt Moriarty grab his sleeve as he closed his eyes.

* * *

"What do you mean missing?" John asked, looking between Lestrade and the doctor, the white light of the hospital suddenly too bright,

'He wasn't at the docks. He wasn't anywhere, in fact, and you were injured, so we figured Moriarty…" Lestrade looked up at John. His eyes were tired, and he looked older than ever. John was struggling to comprehend the fact that Sherlock was not here,

'The letter,' John suddenly breathed and he sat up straighter, "Doctor, where are my clothes?" he asked, his voice jumping,

'In – in with the others," the doctor said, and John looked at Lestrade,

'Get my pants!" he said, "There's a letter in there. It's the only reason we were at the docks that late at night. We had received a note saying that we'd get information about Moriarty, so we decided to go down and check it out," Lestrade nodded, and was about to go and get the pants, too tired to ask questions, when there was a massive booming sound, that echoed across London's rooftops and reached them. John threw his covers back and limped to the window along with the doctor and Lestrade.

The hospital was situated near the Thames, and they could see it from their fifth floor position, and there, on the middle of it, even through the driving rain, a ball of fire erupted and John felt his world spinning, _Sherlock_ he thought as the fire grew dimmer and started to burn brightly on the water, the last vestiges of John's hopes disappearing.

* * *

The first thing he felt was the wave of intense heat – then it was a wall of water at least six metres high. Sherlock, Moriarty and the puppy were thrown overboard, but Sherlock held on to the lead of the life raft, the puppy and the paddle. They sunk like stones, down, down, down and Sherlock kept his eyes closed, his ears ringing from the sound of the explosion. Survival instincts kicking in, Sherlock kicked for the surface, the puppy, who was trembling, copying him and also kicking out. Sherlock felt Moriarty behind him and cursed silently, _why couldn't he be blown to pieces?_

For the second time that night, Sherlock broke the surface of the Thames, opening his eyes to find that the boat was nowhere in sight. The force of the explosion was so great that they had been thrown around a bend in the river. The rain was still falling, and Sherlock couldn't see the banks on either side. The little puppy climbed onto his shoulders, its small frame shivering, and Sherlock ran a hand through its fur, to comfort it. It nuzzled his neck and Sherlock chuckled, the little one reminded him of John. Moriarty appeared at his shoulder, the cut on his face looking positively feral in the shadows that surrounded them, isolated on the river as they were, the only light coming from the heaven's above.

'Well, we're both alive," Moriarty said his words slightly less confidant then they had been,

'Unfortunate for the rest of the world, in your case" Sherlock retorted as he looked around for the lifeboat. He yanked on the lead rope and dragged it up. Both men waited for the appearance and all present breathed a collective sigh of relief as it appeared, it's orange surface, in one piece and still floating. This time neither Sherlock nor Moriarty had the energy to try and get rid of the other. They collapsed on the boat, the puppy snuggling up on Sherlock's tummy, providing some warmth for his frozen body.

Moriarty sighed. This night had not gone to plan, and now he felt like someone had decided to perform cryogenics on him even though he wasn't dead. He glanced over at his enemy; the man was lying like he was, spread-eagled, the rain now quite therapeutic for their aching muscles. He was sharing a life raft with the man and wasn't trying to kill him. Oh well, they could continue this when they got back to dry land, he could barely lift his hand right now.

And neither could Sherlock.

* * *

Spent an entire day writing this and am really not sure about quality. Quick question, should Lestrade's first name be Geoff or Greg? It's going to be used in the next chapter.

Thanks,

Aza :D

*cyber hugs for reviews*


	12. Man verses Nature

I'm loving writing this! Thanks so much for all the reviews, alerts and favourites. 3

However, two people have kept me writing, Alerix Slynn and Mini Reyes, both fantastic people and authors. :D Thank you so much! This chapter is for you.

* * *

**Chapter 12:**

The rain was still pounding down when Sherlock regained his senses, _how long have I been out of it? _ Was the first thing that entered his mind. He remembered climbing into the raft, followed by Moriarty – Sherlock suddenly sat up, sending the puppy sliding off his abdomen and onto the raft. "Oh, sorry," Sherlock mumbled, and he could have sworn the dog raised an eyebrow…_it doesn't have a eyebrow, I think I've spent way too long out here._ Next to him, Moriarty stirred. It would seem they both passed out.

Sherlock assessed their surroundings. They weren't in the centre of London anymore, and the river was flowing faster, but was a little calmer than before. The puppy walked back over to Sherlock, and buried its nose underneath his arm. Sherlock pulled it closer and looked around. They were, indeed, somewhere in the suburbs and even as he felt it, the river was calming, the currents still strong, but maybe, if he tried, he could get them closer to the banks. He grabbed the remaining paddle and stuck it out in the water. Moriarty opened his eyes as Sherlock used the paddle as a rudder, to steer them in the right direction. Moriarty crawled over, the raft tipping dangerously. He grabbed the top of the paddle and helped Sherlock to turn it. Slowly, it began to change its course.

Sherlock barely blinked at the fact that Moriarty was helping him – both their lives were at stake. They didn't know when the river's conditions would change. Even the puppy came out from under Sherlock's arm and nudged the paddle with its snout. The sheer force of the water meant that the pressure that Sherlock and Moriarty had to put on the paddle was equivalent to the amount needed to move it through drying cement. But they were making progress, if not rather a slow one.

Thunder still rumbled overhead, Sherlock's side burned, and the river fought to take control of their craft, but they fought back. Sherlock felt relief spreading through his body as the actual riverbanks came into view. The paths around the river were flooded, covered in water, but that didn't matter. Sherlock and Moriarty kept it up, and the puppy acted like a figurehead, standing at the front, it's small body tense. Sherlock focused on the small animal and found he was glad he brought it on board. It was a beautiful animal. It's brown and black fur was sleek, it's bones were well defined – obviously a purebred, and it was so friendly, nicer than most humans he had ever met.

Finally, Sherlock could see the bottom of the river, and this gave both him and Moriarty more energy. Together, Sherlock grabbing the puppy, they jumped out of the raft and scrambled up the banks and onto solid ground. Sherlock had never been happier to feel the solidity underneath his feet, and both he and Moriarty collapsed on the ground, looking like, to any passers by (not that there would be any in this whether) like they had just survived a long stretch at sea.

Sherlock felt the cold, rough ground under his cheek and loved every bit of it. He loved the fact, that he was sure a rock cut his face, and not something unmatchable, in the dark recesses of the Thames, whose sound was still rushing in his ears, along with the others sounds of the storm that was raging around him, and his thumping heart, which he was pretty sure was going to explode if he kept putting in under this much stress. The puppy, however, refused to just let him be. It first nudged his hand and nipped at the tips of the fingers, before climbing onto his back. Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth turn up as the light weight on his back, shifted weight from one leg to another. Finally, the puppy, wanting attention, padded off his back and onto the cement, waking around so that it was facing him, it's huge, dark eyes, looking into Sherlock's and Sherlock chuckled, "Stupid," he muttered, raising one bruised arm to ruffle it's fur. Sherlock sat up and found Moriarty doing the same.

There was silence for a minute, "Now what?" asked Moriarty, "I can't kill you, there's nothing to do it with,"

"You're going to prison, you bastard," Sherlock said, somehow unable to get any venom into his voice. He was too tired,

"What, you're not going to kill me here?" Moriarty mocked,

"No. You're going to get a fair trial," Sherlock turned so he was facing Moriarty and the puppy climbed onto his lap, once again trying to get away from the rain. Sherlock's mouth was set in a straight line, 'you'll get a fair trial and will rot away in prison, before being strapped to the chair," Moriarty frowned and was about to reply when something caught his eye, behind Sherlock,

'We might have bigger problems than that, Sherlock," he said and the detective smirked,

'You think I'm falling for that?" Sherlock made to get up but felt something at the back of his neck and froze. "Again?" he asked and Moriarty managed a smile as a cloaked figure – no doubt dressed the same as the man behind Sherlock, put a gun to the back of his head too, his face hidden in the cowl of his cloak. Sherlock was dragged to his feet and the puppy fell to the floor, looking up at the man who saved her life. Sherlock stared into its eyes, 'the docks," he said but that was all he had time for. He was dragged away alongside Moriarty and glanced back. The puppy was still staring at him, "Docks" he repeated again, his voice overpowering the thunder up high, which earned him a knock to the back of his head as the world around him blurred and faded, due to the needle that had been stuck in his arm.

* * *

The wind howled with a fury that John had felt only once in his life as Lestrade helped him out of the car. The explosion happened a full two and a half hours ago, but John had not been let out of the hospital until now and he found himself counting the seconds since he had last seen Sherlock. John swallowed as he stepped onto the docks, leaning heavily on both his cane and Lestrade, "Maybe we should've listened to the doctor," Lestrade said, watching as every move hurt John. The ex-army medic only shook his head, "No," was all he managed as they made their slow way down to the docks.

Finally, John let go of Lestrade as they walked onto the scene, and leant against the police car that Sherlock had put him in. The view that Greeted John was a complete fiasco, being tidied up by the police forensics teams. The boards had been washed clean by the rain, which had now turned into a light drizzle, but there were still obvious signs where the blood from the policemen's bodies had been. The bodies were sitting in body bags, ready to go to the morgue and John stared at the last place he had seen Sherlock disappear. John controlled his breathing as he approached the edge of the docks where the boat, called _lucky fortune, _had been anchored, "He'd be right here," said John, remembering what he had seen through the windscreen of the car.

The rain had been coming down, and blurred images more than his own eyes did. Sherlock had hoisted himself up onto the boat and then disappeared from sight, only to reappear, being throttled by someone. It had all been so hazy...why couldn't he remember?

John thumped his cane down in frustration as Lestrade ran a hand through his damp hair and stared out at the water, his mind someplace else - probably his poor wife, who he constantly left at home. The DI was about to look away from the Thames when something caught his attention, "What's that?" he yelled, his voice so loud in the whispered confines of the crime scene, John almost fell into the harbour – again. "Where?" asked John, his voice rising in hope,

'There," Lestrade pointed towards the middle of the Thames, now its usual calm self, where something was moving towards the shore.

Two divers jumped into the water and swam out; reaching who ever was out there and bringing it back. John felt his heart drop as the light from the powerful torches fell on the bundle of fur that was, in fact, a puppy. John took the little creature as the divers held it up and looked at it. It was shaking like a leaf, and it was so cold. Instinctively, John brought it towards his chest, using the side that didn't have the broken ribs to support the little creature. It wriggled before settling,

"Too bad," said Lestrade, eyeing the puppy with some apprehension. He'd had a German shepherd when he was younger. It had been run over by a truck, and he's stayed away from dogs since then.

'We'll find him, Greg," The DI looked at John, his eyes full of sadness and John looked away at the water…and then suddenly, he wasn't looking at water at all. He was staring at the wall of a part of the Thames…and the puppy was there, so was Moriarty and…his heart jumped, 'Sherlock," he spoke the word aloud and suddenly he was staring at the docks again, with the gently moving ships, boats and yachts, bobbing in the currents.

'What?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow, and put a hand on John's shoulder as he suddenly stumbled, forgetting he couldn't put his weight on his bad leg.

The doctor stared down at the puppy, who looked back at him, "We have to go," he said suddenly, and took off, faster than he thought possible. He grimaced as the leg burned in response to the sudden take off. Lestrade caught him up and fell into step,

'Where are we going John?" he asked, a hint of worry entering his voice. Last time John had an idea, he ended up all over the news,

"I…I don't know," John looked up at Lestrade and Lestrade suddenly felt like he had been slapped. There was something in the doctor's eyes, something that ripped the DI's heart to ribbons. There was pain in there, but there was also something else…love? No, well yes, some love, but also, there was fear. Fear of losing the only person that that kept him sane since his return from Afghanistan, despite his outbursts that Sherlock was going to be the death of him.

Lestrade swallowed, 'Alright, let's go," He helped John up the slope and into the car again. Before climbing into the car himself, he ran to the ambulance and grabbed a shock blanket, before hurrying back to the car. Giving the blanket to John to wrap around the puppy, Lestrade started the engine.

* * *

Soon they were driving through London's streets, keeping close to the Thames as John stared out the window, watching the water. Lestrade stayed silent, because he didn't need to talk. Neither was ready to say that Sherlock was dead. Over the last few months, Lestrade had actually grown to like Sherlock, whether or not it had been because of the influence of John, he wasn't sure, but he really did like Sherlock, like a little brother he wished he had.

Suddenly John let out an exclamation, and Lestrade braked so hard, the puppy was thrown onto the dashboard. It made a small sound of protest, and as an apology, Lestrade stroked it before hurrying out of the car, leaving the door open. The rain had all but stopped, but the grounds were very slippery. John was up ahead, making his way down the side of the Thames, to the very edge where the land met the water and then Lestrade saw it. An orange lifeboat that might have been big enough to carry three people. John couldn't bend down, so he waited for Lestrade to reach him and drag the craft onto the shore. It was still in one piece, and Lestrade looked up at John with amazement, 'How'd you know?" he asked and John flushed,

'It was just like with the assassin…I don't know how I knew, I just…did," Lestrade turned as the puppy tumbled down the bank, its fur sticking up at odd angles, and walked over to the craft. It nosed it and flopped down next to it, "Sherlock had the puppy," said John, suddenly realising how he figured it out,

"He sent it to you?" Lestrade asked and for the first time in three hours, John smiled,

"Sherlock's alive," he said and Lestrade smiled with him,

'Now all we got to do is find him," Lestrade said, and John nodded, stumbling a little as the wind buffeted him.

Suddenly, he froze as a man, dressed in a cloak appeared where the road was. Lestrade noticed the change in body language and followed John's gaze. Neither John nor Lestrade had heard his approach, but both now registered that there was an engine running,

'You shouldn't have come here," The voice was deep, and John sighed, as the man, followed by another two walked down to join him, Lestrade and the puppy, who wrapped itself around John's leg, refusing to be left behind this time.

From its position on the ground, the puppy stared up as the men who had warmed it just a minute ago were handcuffed. John swore as the cloaked men elbowed him in the ribs, "can I pick the pup up?" he asked, his breath sharp and jagged. He was sure his bloody ribs were cracked. Again.

They paused to allow him to cradle the pup before hoisting him to his feet and dragging him along with Lestrade. On the road, they were piled into the back of the car, a light turning on, causing John's already thumping headache to turn into a marching band all on its own. As his eyes adjusted he took in his surroundings. Lestrade was next to him, and the puppy was on his lap. They were in a tiny compartment, but it seemed that the divider in front of them could be opened up, judging by the cracks running from the floor to the ceiling. Even as he thought it, there was a metallic click and the section folded itself way to reveal a sight that made John and Lestrade feel both happy and panicked. Shackled to each other, the limousine, and now, as the cloaked man climbed in, John and Lestrade, was Sherlock and Moriarty,

'John," Sherlock smiled widely, unafraid to show how glad he was to see John, whole and in one piece, 'So glad you could join us," the detective finished, but John couldn't reply. It was like someone had flicked a switch and he was happy again. It didn't matter where they were going, as long as it was with Sherlock.

"We didn't have a choice," said Lestrade as the engine started up and they pulled away from the Thames - saved from nature, but now at the mercy of men.

* * *

Who are the mystery men, eh?

I chose Greg as Lestrade's first name, because majority seemed to want it. I'm actually feeling a little sorry for those four men and that puppy. XD

Oh, and I'm seeking medical help for my cliffhanger problem, but can't get an appointment until next year. :)

Aza


	13. Hitchikers guide

I am terribly sorry if I took the story too fast, and this is a little slower.

*Cyber hugs for everyone who had reviewed!*

* * *

**Chapter 13:**

The limousine cut through the night like shadow, its high performance engines a gentle whirr in the damp London air. The streets were asleep, and the night at it's darkest, the stars above twinkling as their light reached the earth. Inside, there was silence, the four men chained to each other and unable to move, communicating instead by looks.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Moriarty shifted for the hundredth time and John's eyes lit up at the action that was so typical of his flatmate while Lestrade sighed. Finally deciding to break the silence, Moriarty spoke up, "So, Greg, how are things going?" Lestrade looked like he had been punched,

'How do you know my first name?" he asked,

'And they wonder why crimes take so long to be solved," Sherlock muttered,

"Ignore him," John advised, indicating Sherlock with a jab of his thumb,

"Is everyone just going to ignore _me_?" Moriarty asked, looking a little offended, as if anyone in this car was actually _supposed_ to like him.

"Yes," John, Sherlock and Lestrade chorused. Moriarty shuffled back, and sighed. The cloaked figure sat like he was a part of the wall of the limousine. He was facing forward, which meant they could see nothing except a high cheek covered in tanned skin. The rest of his face was shadowed, as was probably the design of the cowl, and he was so still, the only reason he moved was because he needed to breath, and even then, it seemed, to John, that he really didn't want to do that either.

* * *

The car continued its journey through London, and then out of the city, into the even quieter suburbs. The streetlights didn't penetrate the glazing of the windows, and the captives sat in the painfully bright light that shone from the ceiling of the car meaning that when they glanced outside, their eyes, even Sherlock's, couldn't see anything, except their own reflection staring forlornly back at them. The detective, while usually not an overly vain man, didn't like the fact that he looked like a drowned rat. A ridiculously tall, drowned rat. The heater, thankfully, _mercifully_, had been turned on, so his clothes were drying and the tremors running up and down his body had stopped. Although, any thought of that kiss on the docks threatened to start them again.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He tried not to think about it, but once they were in a car and not facing immediate danger, thoughts he didn't exactly _dislike_ but were completely new entered his head. Thoughts that what they say was right, John _did _look good wet – if not for the two foot long piece of timber in his leg. Glancing over at the subject of his thoughts, Sherlock took in the bandages and the way that John leaned just a little to the right, and how some of his breaths weren't quite consistent,

'John, you didn't tell me everything, did you?" asked Sherlock and John's head snapped up, his attention taken away from the sleeping puppy, lying in the middle of the floor, as if it were caught between Sherlock and John,

"Huh?" John asked, as Lestrade and Moriarty looked from Sherlock and John, both curious,

"You didn't tell me the truth," he repeated,

"About what?' John asked, uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze,

"Your ribs, you didn't tell me," said Sherlock, "That's why me walking hurt you more than if you were lying down," John looked back at the floor,

'Didn't want you to worry," he sounded like a child being chastised. How easily roles could be reversed.

Lestrade watched with some amusement, half of his brain focusing on the conversation, and the other half on what he was going to do, stuck with a sociopath, a psychopath, an ex-army medic, a puppy, and men who looked like they might be leading them all into cave carved out of the mountain and then tell them that they had been kidnapped by MI6 and were going to be shipped out to Korea for a nuclear testing mission. Lestrade sighed. His mother always said his imagination ran away with him.

* * *

The car made a turn and even Sherlock, who was mapping the route out in his head lost track of where they were. He blamed it partially on John, but also on the fact that he just escaped a near-death experience. It can do things to the head, he's been told.

Moriarty observed everyone in the limo. He was interested to see the way Sherlock and John were able to talk without words, and he was rather intrigued by Lestrade and the fact that he was trying to stay away from the puppy. Was he scared of it? Maybe he could use that information to his advantage?

The hours passed, John taking the time to get some sleep – in an emergency situation take rest when you can, you have no idea when you have to run was the soldiers motto. Sherlock had, by now, figured out exactly where they were, thanks to the sound of the car crossing railway lines but that didn't really help, because they were in reinforced steel chains and were chained to each other. So the idea that he could push Moriarty off the up coming Cliffs of Dover were cut short. However, Sherlock was pretty sure he could do something about the chained up bit.

* * *

Finally, the car began to slow down and John woke as the rhythm of the motor changed. He shifted and winced as he remembered his leg and ribs, then settled, his eyes adjusting to the light. The cloaked man left the car and Lestrade watched him go out the right hand door, before turning to Sherlock,

"What's this all about, and where the bloody hell have you been?" he asked, not one to beat around the bush with niceties such as 'how are you', Sherlock rolled his eyes,

"I have been battling currents on the Thames and trying to get rid of Moriarty," he said, as if it happened ever day,

'Right," said Lestrade, reacting exactly as Sherlock expected – concealed worry. John on the other hand looked like he wanted to strangle Sherlock. At least, that's what it looked like in this light. It was hard to tell,

"Where's the letter?" Sherlock whispered, addressing John,

"With Anderson," said Lestrade, cutting in and Sherlock groaned,

"That git?" he asked, and Lestrade nodded,

"Yeah, sorry bout that, but when we got the letter John didn't even want to read it," said Lestrade, looking as if he was revealing some great secret, "he insisted that we get down to the docks' Lestrade finished with a shrug and John decided to look anywhere but Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock suddenly raised a finger to his mouth to indicate silence as the voices from outside were heard, "We need to get them inside," said one,

'Easier said than done," replied another, this time female,

"Fine, Let's get ourselves inside then," Silence fell as the kidnapper's voices and footsteps faded away.

* * *

"What are we going to do?" Moriarty whispered, drawing the gaze of all in the car,

"We?" asked John,

"Why should we go anywhere with you?' Lestrade added and the man shrugged,

"Because, I am shackled to you. If you go, I go." He said and Lestrade conceded the point,

'I know why they want us," Sherlock cut in, turning to face John and Lestrade, ignoring Moriarty,

"Why?"

"Because they want the letter," he replied and Lestrade furrowed his brow,

'But the letter is about Moriarty, isn't it?"

"Well yeah," Sherlock still didn't glance behind at the villain, whom they were discussing, 'But it must have other things in there as well," the detective looked expectantly between the two men, and then sighed,

'Don't even mention the word idiot," John raised a finger as Sherlock opened his mouth. Lestrade smiled as Sherlock closed it again, raised an eyebrow before nodding, 'you're getting better, John," he said and the doctor rolled his eyes,

'Hurry up, before they come back," Lestrade prompted,

'Right," Sherlock nodded, "See, Eagle, as you will remember, John," Sherlock looked only at the doctor now, and saw the flash of pain in his eyes before he hid it again. Sherlock continued, "Eagle said _I'm atoning for my sins_ so, at the time, we thought it was only about Moriarty,"

"But it wasn't?" asked Lestrade. John had filled him in as to who had given them the letter and why they were at the docks that late at night,

'No!" Sherlock's voice rose and John frowned,

"Quietly, Sherlock," he said and the detective contained himself,

"Yes, right, sorry. There _must_ be other information in that letter. Information about London's underground world,"

'That would have helped us," Lestrade caught on,

"Which means that many Gangland lords are going to want that letter," said John and Sherlock nodded.

From behind Sherlock, Moriarty sighed, 'Now that we have figured out what's in the letter, how do we get out of here, braniac?" he asked,

'You haven't figured it out yet?" asked Sherlock, "the great Moriarty doesn't even know how to get out of a car?" John and Lestrade exchanged a worried glance,

'Sherlock, you're not seriously suggesting what I think you are, are you?" asked John, leaning forward, despite his restraints, and Sherlock grinned his trademark grin – the ones that always mean trouble. He moved forward and Moriarty, John and Lestrade all exclaimed – softly, mind, at the fact that they were no longer chained to the limo. Sherlock had at some point during the journey, unshackled them, but they were, however still individually handcuffed and linked to each other,

"But we don't know where we are!" said Lestrade, looking at the windows, which was rather pointless,

"Yes we do," Sherlock was looking positively smug now,

'Do we now?" asked John,

"Yep," and it was Moriarty's turn to roll his eyes,

'We're running out of time," the murderer said, and Sherlock nodded again,

'Okay, we are near the cliffs of Dover," he said and a stunned silence greeted him,

"Bloody amazing," John muttered, the first to recover from this deduction,

"I know," Sherlock agreed, before shuffling over to the left hand side of the door,

"Sherlock, wait," Sherlock turned to face John,

'What?'

"We make a huge amount of sound," he said, and to prove his point he moved his right hand, accompanied by the clanking sound of their shackles,

'They'll hear us moving," said Lestrade and Sherlock shook his head,

"No they won't," he argued and Moriarty scoffed,

'What are you going to do?" he asked, and John found himself unnerved as the look of scepticism that on most people would look quite comical, looked positively scary as Moriarty gazed at Sherlock, "Teleport us out of here?" he asked, but was ignored as the detective turned to John and Lestrade, "Listen," he said and silence fell again. Outside, there was no sound, except, Lestrade was not surprised to register, the crashing of waves far below,

"See?" said Sherlock, 'they've gone inside. There must be a house around here," John smiled, and Sherlock reached for the door. For the second time, Sherlock was stopped as Lestrade jerked backwards, pulling all of them towards him, including Sherlock's outstretched hand, "Lestrade!" Sherlock hissed, as the cuffs cut into his skin,

"Sorry," he said, "but they would've locked the car," he said and Sherlock let out a sound of irritation crossed with exasperation,

"No, idiot," he said, massing his wrists as best he could in cuffs, "They didn't. We're chained to the goddamn limousine!" he pointed to the hole where the chain used to be hooked on,

"Oh," said Lestrade and John chuckled, 'Let's get out of here," they shuffled so Moriarty – at the end of the chain, could get to the door.

Lifting the latch, the door swung open silently, and the light from the car lit the grass below them. The smell of the ocean replaced the slight smell of Sherlock and Moriarty, who, unlike John, didn't get the chance to change their clothes. In fact, Sherlock knew that his socks were still wet, but his upper abdomen was dry. For some reason, however, the wound in his side was burning, and it had only done that straight after the operation. Interesting as this knew development was, Sherlock couldn't explore it any further.

Moriarty led the way out and all four men; hunched over so as to be protected by the limousine from any on lookers, were outside on the grass with a few loud clinking sounds and a few co-ordination problems. John raised his head so that his eyes could see that Sherlock was, in fact, right. About one hundred metres from the limo, was a small cabin, facing outwards to the cold grey sea. John smiled and turned to his companions as the puppy flopped out of the car and Sherlock bent to pick it up,

'Let's go," said John, finding the need to whisper and Sherlock nodded. Lestrade took the lead this time, in the direction Sherlock indicated with his free hand and the sight was more than comical – it was just plain weird. Under the cover of darkness, and with minimal clinking, as John figured they should hold the chains tight, to stop the sound, they started to actually make progress away from the limo,

"I can't believe that we just got away with that," Lestrade whispered and Sherlock shook his head, a movement that was impossible to see thanks to the darkness that enveloped them as easily as the limousine did.

* * *

The men continued their walk through the English countryside, which was unpredictable as the whether. After the first hour, they allowed themselves to slow the pace, but only because the incredible weight of the cuffs were taking their toll. The way was bumpy, and had random dips, hidden in the pitch-blackness, slowing them down and sending them tumbling three times. On the third time, no one bothered to get up, as they seemed to have landed on a very rocky ground, and they had been walking for at least three hours,

"Sherlock," John panted, nudging the detective, as on either side of John and Sherlock, Moriarty and Lestrade lay back, ignoring the stones. Despite the below zero temperatures, all the men were sweating, and the puppy, whom Sherlock had originally cradled, had opted to walk, as if realising that Sherlock was struggling as it was. The puppy was the only one who didn't fall the first two times, but the third, it tumbled down with them, and was laying across John's legs, it's breath warm through John's pants,

"Yeah?" the detective replied, turning to look at John, and only seeing him because he was an inch away from his face…temptingly close…

"They're going to figure out that we've escaped," said John and Lestrade sat up, the rocks below digging into his palms, joining the conversation,

'Yeah, surely they would want to feed us?" he asked and Sherlock nodded,

"But they won't chase us at night," the detective asserted,

"How can you be so sure?" Moriarty joined in, and after considering whether or not he was going to reply, Sherlock did,

'Because they're professionals and they know how heavy these locks are, and that we're injured," Sherlock stated, looking at all three men.

The sky above them was clear, beautiful, the stars twinkling as if they were watching the men, and laughing at the ridiculous situation all four found themselves in, 'So they'll start looking in the morning?" asked John,

'Yes, because they believe we'll only stop about a kilometre from the base, said Sherlock,

"How far have we travelled?" asked Lestrade,

"About two kilometres,' John groaned. Sherlock was right, they were injured, and boy was he feeling his injuries right now. The entire left leg felt like it was pulsating, sending spasmodic rivers of pain up his leg, and causing him to stumble, barely able to keep from uttering a sound. He knew Sherlock had noticed this, and that was when their pace slowed a little,

"So what do we do? We can't really run away, they'll find us," Moriarty looked around them, and Sherlock grinned,

'We hitchhike," he said simply and once again was greeted by silence. Sometimes, he wished his brother were here, despite loathing him. At least he understood Sherlock's train of thoughts.

'Sherlock," John started slowly, "We're in the country side and it's…" John glanced up, "four thirty in the morning, and you want to hitch a ride?" asked John and Sherlock nodded. Suddenly, the ground beneath them started to tremble, and the puppy scampered up the length of John's body, until it had its damp paws around John's neck, much to the doctor's surprise. Sherlock was the only one who laughed, as everyone else was wondering why on earth the ground was moving,

'Sherlock, what's going on?" asked Moriarty, his voice unusually high,

"Our ride's coming,"

John was the first person to piece everything together. The rocks beneath him, and –- metal rails! Why didn't he notice that before?

Sherlock got to his feet, dragging everyone with him, "All aboard!" he said, smiling but no one smiled back, "What?" he asked, as they moved off the tracks and a whistle from some while away sounded, "isn't that what people say?"

* * *

All right, crazier than ever, I know :D BUT SCHOOL"S OUT! SUMMER HOLIDAYS!

Review?

Aza


	14. to the universe

**14 years of drought broken - with floods that has left a massive damage bill**. Someone has a mean sense of humour up there. Please keep those who are suffering in you prayers.

Onto the next chapter:

* * *

**Chapter 14:**

"Sherlock, how exactly do you intend to get us on a train?" asked Lestrade, almost too scared to actually hear the answer,

'The usual way," said Sherlock and Moriarty turned to face him,

'We're just going to climb on? Forgetting the fact that the train is travelling at one hundred miles per hour, and forgetting the fact that it's pitch black, and we're all chained together?" he ended with a slight wave of his hand to indicate the cuffs as the sound of the train began to near them, "Yes," Sherlock suddenly started walking, taking the others with him and bent down so he was holding onto a log, about the size of a small bed, that he had obviously spotted from the tracks.

The land that surrounded the train tracks was rich in life, trees growing everywhere - even though they didn't grow within one hundred metres of the track or very close to each other either. It was actually a very beautiful scene by daylight, but at night, the trees seemed to have a life of their own, swaying slightly even though there was no wind that John, Lestrade, Moriarty or Sherlock could actually feel.

The others stood next to Sherlock, who was still crouched over, confused, and then realised exactly what he was doing. John dropped the puppy and also bent down, followed by Lestrade and Moriarty, who climbed over the log so that they were on the other side. Together, they hefted the heavy piece of wood up, as the train whistle sounded and its light appeared about two kilometres away, "Hurry!" grunted John, as the puppy barked and the tremors in the ground became more prominent. The puppy barked once more as John stumbled before regaining his balance.

Moriarty could feel the ground rumbling, and his entire back ached with the weight of the wood. Lestrade swore as a splinter entered his palm and lost his grip on it momentarily. The other men were forced to stop to compensate for this, as Lestrade regained his grip. They continued moving as the ground started to really shake, the light from the train like a beacon – a beacon that was growing larger every second that passed. Finally, Lestrade felt the metal tracks beneath his feet, and the rocks that were lying there stabbed through the soles of his boots, 'Here!" he said, and he and Moriarty turned so that they now had their backs to the log, Sherlock and John. The sound of the diesel engine was deafening in the night air now, as Lestrade and Moriarty got into position,

'Drop!" said John and altogether, the four men dropped the log, with a clanging sound and a few oaths. Lestrade and Moriarty leaped over it to join Sherlock and John. Together they ran away from the tracks, towards a particularly big oak, around one hundred and fifty metres away as the driver of the train spotted the blockade on the tracks.

The men moved behind the tree as the squeal of brakes echoed through the night. John put his hands over the puppy's ears as it ran towards them, and the four of them watched as sparks flew into the night, the train skidding, coming closer and closer to the log – if it hit, their entire plan would have turned on its head – not mention the fact that they would be responsible for the deaths of all onboard. This was, after all a V-line train, going into the country and beyond, carrying a whole heap of passengers. The windows of the carriages had people with their faces pressed to the glass, watching the sparks below them, not knowing what was going on. Closer and closer the train ran, and the tension grew as the men watched, wondering what they had just done. Finally, it was over.

Lestrade sent up a prayer of thanks as the train came to a halt – less than one metre from the log, and the smell of something burning reached them - even from their distance. The men started to move towards the train, their ears ringing, cautious of the people who were still looking out of the window, as the puppy walked in front of them, nose to the ground, taking in all the information. The back doors of the carriages sprung open and the ticket checkers climbed down, consulted with each other, then started to walk to the front, where the driver was standing. Sherlock could easily tell from his body language that he was dumbfounded as to how that log got there. Sherlock put a hand on Lestrade's shoulder to make him wait, the puppy stopping up ahead as the ticket checker's moved further away. Sherlock gave Lestrade a light push and they were moving again, seizing their opportunity to get on the train.

* * *

Lestrade was the first up the stairs as the people from inside settled back down – they were all right, the rest didn't matter, that's what train officials were for.

Despite the fact that the four men knew that they were hidden in darkness outside, all of them were still on edge that someone inside had seen them. Moriarty, who was on the end of the chain climbed up last, bringing the puppy with him and they took in their new surroundings as their eyes adjusted. It was a little cabin that separated them from the rest of the carriages, with three doors leading off, right left and centre.

"To the right," Sherlock whispered. By now, they would've started to move the log up the front, he figured. they didn't have much time to find a hiding place. Lestrade reached for the handle, which opened up into what looked like a mess hall, "Not in there," he whispered, closing the door again.

"Left?" John asked as his leaned out, and opened that door. He immediately shut it as the sounds of the passengers greeted them,

'No," said Sherlock, walking forward to the remaining door,

'Oh come on," Moriarty muttered as Sherlock opened it to reveal a toilet,

"It's out only option," said Lestrade and John sighed. He'd been in worse places – like the sewers beneath the White house on a classified training mission. Lord knows he still remembered _that_ smell from time to time.

"We can't all fit in there," Moriarty tried, as Lestrade was the first to go in,

'We're going to have to try," John muttered as Sherlock followed, the tall man frowning as he stretched his stitches, which he had a suspicion didn't exist anymore. Funny how the walls suddenly started to merge with each other. Maybe he should tell John, it wasn't exactly normal to be feeling like this, was it? The wound on the consulting detective's side was burning with a new fury as he fitted himself into the toilet, and he new it was bleeding - again. If this kept up he would be left very weak indeed.

As Sherlock considered these thoughts, John found a way in, pressed uncomfortably against the sink and Sherlock (though that wasn't so bad), which only got more uncomfortable when Moriarty squeezed in, the puppy worming it's way through their legs, finding a place on the floor, as Jim shut the door, somehow managing to turn the lock, and plunging the room into darkness. Lestrade swore, pinned up against the toilet, as they were forced to shuffle back still further because the puppy moved. Thank god he decided to shut the seat when he entered, at least now he could sit down.

Sherlock was, for some reason, not quite as irritated as he thought he would be. John's scent was calming and he loved having the ex-army medic's weight on him, which started at around thigh level and went up to chest. It was warm, it was nice. It distracted from the pain in his side. In fact it would've been perfect if it weren't for Lestrade and Moriarty, the latter who was jammed up against the door, swearing as he accidentally drove his elbow into it,

"How long do you think the journey will be?" asked Lestrade, the chains clanking as he moved,

"I don't know," John winced as a cuff cut into his wrist and Sherlock looked down in concern because he felt the start of pain his flatmate had given. John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock's lips brushed his forehead, and he felt Sherlock's heart rate accelerate, and the sudden warmth that was emanating from Sherlock's face. He also noticed how Sherlock's arms – which had gone around him to fit Moriarty in, tightened their hold, his thumb absent-mindedly rubbing circles on his back, giving the doctor Goosebumps.

'Are you all right John? Sherlock asked, managing to control his voice, but not the expression on his face. Thankfully, it was dark,

'Yeah, fine," John mumbled, staring into Sherlock's chest, "Just the cuffs,"

'Bloody irritating things," Lestrade added, and Moriarty muttered ascent from the front.

* * *

They fell silent as voices neared, and then, suddenly, the engine started up below them, the compressors hissing as they filled again. Obviously the tracks were clear. The two voices of the ticket checkers who climbed out came back, and the slamming of the metal door reverberated around the compartment. From what Sherlock could tell, one went right and the other went left – obviously to tell the passengers everything was okay. The sound of pistons moving underneath them started up and Sherlock could almost see the metal work moving in his minds eye.

The train started its journey, unaware of its extra passengers, and it began to pick up the speed. Inside the toilet cubicle, Lestrade shifted, John sighed, Sherlock tried not to think about what he could do with John this close and Moriarty complained in whispers about how uncomfortable he was, until John kicked him square in between the legs, shutting him up with a small whine. This was going to be a long journey.

* * *

Shorter chapter than normal, I know. But I'm feeling oddly tired after yesterday…must be the sugar low. Oh well. :D

*Big, soulful, eyes* Review?

Aza

PUPPY: She needs a name. Any ideas? Hero is one, any more?


	15. Fever

Right…I had delayed putting this chapter up because I was (am) in silent debate with myself as to whether anyone would actually understand a bloody word I'm saying.

Here goes: *sits in nervous anticipation*

* * *

**Chapter 15:**

The train rattled on, it's passage cutting through the chilly night, the clouds gathering overhead once again, the constant sound of the powerful engine soothing and relaxing for the passengers the train carried. Well, most of them anyway.

Sherlock, Greg, John, Jim and the puppy were still trapped in that tiny cubicle, still chained together, but, being tired as they were, actually falling asleep. The cubicle, unlike the rest of the train wasn't heated, so Sherlock, the only person who was still conscious, was quite glad of the others presence. One in particular, but it was best not to think about that. Sherlock focused instead on the burning in his side, which was getting more than painful. When they were out of here he was going to get John to look at it.

Sherlock shifted slightly as a stab of pain went up his side. John, leaning on his chest, his sandy blonde hair catching the little light that was available coming from underneath the door, the only part Sherlock could see, shifted with him and moved, mumbling something incoherent. _Damn_ Sherlock thought and closed his eyes to stop himself from making a sound as the burning intensified. Suddenly it was too warm in the cubicle. It was far too warm. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he found himself breathing hard, his eyes unable to focus, he couldn't remember how much time had just passed, _what the hell is happening?_ Sherlock looked around, blinking in panic, his heart thundering. _think logically_…._the wound! The wound must be infected…a fever?_ Once again, the room spun, he lost his balance and...oh that's not right…

* * *

Sherlock was standing on Baker Street, it was night time and the roads were empty, 'C'mon, Sherlock!" John was behind him, pushing the confused detective towards the front door, "John, what are we doing here?" Sherlock asked, and the doctor laughed,

"You're not serious, are you Sherlock?" he opened the door and walked inside. Sherlock stood there for a moment longer before following the man inside. He walked the familiar path up to their rooms, and John turned as they entered the apartment. Sherlock never noticed how the glow from the streetlamps illuminated John's face before today; showing the indents of a hard life. John shot Sherlock a funny look, 'you want some tea, Sherlock?" his flat mate asked. Sherlock could only nod. Something felt very strange about this entire scene, 'John!" he called,

"Yeah?" there was a pause, as Sherlock considered,

"Uh, never mind," Sherlock sat down on the couch, placing his feet on the coffee table.

* * *

Everyone had been asleep when the shout of "JOHN!" had had echoed around the toilet. John blinked, Jim moved and Lestrade got to his feet, all waking up and realising that something was wrong. Sherlock was leaning against the other side of the cubicle; his eyes closed, his breathing fast, sweat on his brow,

"John, what's wrong with him?" Lestrade glanced at Moriarty once before looking back to the doctor, who, with some difficulty raised a cuffed hand and gently touched Sherlock's forehead. The detective jerked away like he had been burned, which is what John felt like when his hand came into contact with Sherlock's alabaster skin, 'Jesus," John whispered,

'What is it?" Greg moved forward, so he could see the expression on John's face,

"He's burning up," the doctor's eyes were wide with panic, "the wound in his side must've gotten infected," Greg looked back as Sherlock moaned in pain, sliding against the wall to sit on the ground. The puppy nosed him in worry,

'What do we do?" Lestrade asked as John sank to his haunches, dragging a smiling Jim with him,

'Keep him cool," he said, looking back up to Lestrade as Moriarty grinned wider, unnoticed by the other two.

* * *

In the apartment, the place that Sherlock's mind had retreated to escape the pain, Sherlock jerked back as he touched the hot cup of tea,

"Sorry," said John, putting it instead on the table,

'It's okay," said Sherlock as the doctor moved away to his couch, 'wait," Sherlock's hand suddenly snapped out and encircled John's wrist, making the man stop and turn,

'What is it Sherlock?" he was wearing the look of exasperation that he usually wore when Sherlock left the head in the fridge or the arm in the bathroom, and neither had bothered to turn the light on yet, the light from the street the only thing allowing Sherlock to observe John,

'Can I try something?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, low, and John's eyes widened as the detective stood, standing directly in front of him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he leaned in, and John didn't pull away. Their lips meant and fire seemed to spread through Sherlock's entire body, tremors running up and down it as he deepened the kiss. John dropped the mug with a crash, but Sherlock didn't notice, he was far too distracted by the feeling of John's lips against his. John's scent, John's warmth…

* * *

"Goddamn,' John winced as Sherlock entire body convulsed, sending the toilet roll holder crashing to the floor, "I wish he'd said something sooner," John cursed again and Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, stopping halfway because he couldn't move it any more without dragging Sherlock's now limp arm up with him. Suddenly footsteps sounded outside the cubicle,

'Uh, is everything alright in there?" a voice called out and Jim looked at John and Lestrade as they froze, Sherlock's laboured breaths the only sound in the cubicle,

"Hello! Is anyone in there?"

'Ticket checker," Lestrade breathed softly and John nodded,

'What do we do?" asked Jim, his voice cracking with the tension as John ignored him,

'Yes! Everything's alright!" the doctor called, trying to keep his voice as level as possible,

"Are you sure? There's no light," there was a note of something John couldn't quite place in the mans voice,

'Yep. Pretty sure. Uh, forgot the light. Thankyou sir,' John called out. They all held their breaths as the footsteps faded away,

'Dear God,' Lestrade ran a soothing hand up Sherlock's arm, which to the DI felt like it was a hot plate of some sort, 'we need to get him to a hospital,"

"I know," John replied, lifting Sherlock's shirt up, 'We need light,' he said and Jim shook his head,

"No, if they see four shadows in here -"

"Shut up!" John snapped, turning to face the criminal, "I don't give a shit whether or not they see four shadows. Turn. On. The. Light," Moriarty spun and did as he was told, the light so incredibly bright, everyone was blinded, and Sherlock made a small sound, something like a whimper. John sighed, he knew that at this point Sherlock would be in some sort of delirium. He only hoped it was a pleasant one.

* * *

There was a wall behind him…and John was in front of him. How did they get into that position? Sherlock sucked in a surprised breath as John kissed his neck, sucking gently on the pulse point, making Sherlock go weak at the knees. He had never wanted anything, or anyone as much as he wanted John. They pulled away from each other for a breath, and Sherlock took in his partner's appearance; John's hair gorgeously messy, his cheeks flushed, his eyes huge. Suddenly, there was an almighty rumble and a bright, white flash. Sherlock felt pain rip through his entire body. He felt more that saw John's body being tossed like a rag doll, away from him as a wave of heat swept over the apartment. Bright…white…bomb…Sherlock gasped as the realisation hit…Moriarty?

* * *

In the cubicle, John had lifted Sherlock's shirt up again and swore at the black wound, and the red in the centre, the blood soaking into Sherlock's shirt staining the white skin a bright scarlet, "Oh God, how could he let it get this bad?" he mumbled and Lestrade let out a snort of derision,

'That's Sherlock for you," behind them, Jim was staring down at the wound with a feeling of great happiness floating inside him. He didn't have to do anything. The Thames did all the work for him. Sherlock was going to die, and little Johnny boy wasn't going to be able to stop that. Moriarty almost giggled out loud. "Tissues," John nodded towards the roll and Lestrade immediately bent down, ripping a wad off and handing it to John. Gently, John applied pressure to the wound, and Sherlock moaned, his chest rising and back arching, the sound making John stop and compose his features before carrying on. He had seen this sort of an infection before, once, in Afghanistan on a soldier's leg. They hadn't been able to save that poor man, because they had noting to cut the leg off with. It wasn't going to happen here, John assured himself, the memory of Sherlock's lips on his still fresh, Sherlock was going to pull through. He was going to make sure of it. Even if it was the last thing that John did.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know what was happening. He didn't know why there was a missing wall of his apartment or why there were sirens sounding outside. All that mattered to him was John's limp body lying in his arms. The tawny eyes glazed over, the blood spreading across his favourite jumper. Sherlock felt his eyes burning, he felt the sobs wracking his body, and he let the tears fall. That was when the cubicle came back into view.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes flickered open and John let out a sigh of relief, "Sherlock,' the word held so much emotion in it, so much warmth, Lestrade suddenly felt like he was intruding on something and looked up – to catch the gleeful smile of Moriarty's face. Anger suddenly burned through him, anger that someone could enjoy the pain another was suffering. Without thinking of the consequences, Lestrade leaped up and, dragging John and Sherlock with him, the latter coming back to the living world fully, as he gained his feet in a flurry of movement and pain, Lestrade punched Moriarty so hard they actually heard the crack,

'Greg!" John almost fell over as Sherlock's full weight fell on top of him, the detective's eyes going wide, as John steadied himself against the wall and Moriarty collapsed to the floor, out cold. Sherlock couldn't believe the position he was in. John's back was against the wall and Sherlock was a centimetre away from his mouth,

'What happened?" asked Sherlock, his voice hoarse, and his throat hurting, focusing away from what he had done in his..._delirium?_ and onto the fact that they were on a train, not in the apartment.

"You've got a fever,' said John, before he turned to Lestrade who looked a little surprised at his handy work,

"Nice hook," John commented, as Moriarty regained consciousness, and whacked his head on the sink, as he tried stand, not noticing that it was directly above him in the confined space. John made no move to push Sherlock off him, which he found both worrying and strange.

"Thanks," said Lestrade, noticing now that their chains were so tangled walking out of here was going to be a problem. And he also had a headache; he whacked his head on the wall in his rush to get to Moriarty, "the bastard was smiling."

"Remind me to never make a joke with you around," John muttered and Lestrade grinned and Sherlock 's mind flashed through what his mind had conjured up in those delirious movements…how long had he been out? God, his body really let him down sometimes.

That was when John's eye caught something they missed, 'Greg, the door-" before he could finish, the door, unlocked as Lestrade brushed past, swung open slowly, to revel a sight the ticket checker would never forget.

Four men chained to each other, a puppy at their feet, in a toilet cubicle. His jaw dropped open at the sight and Sherlock then realised what it might look like to an outsider…especially considering all the thumps and thuds that had accidentally been going on. John cleared his throat, knowing his was as red as the plush carpets in the foyer,

"This isn't what it looks like," he said, and the man nodded, before removing his radio to tell the driver to stop. They had some unwanted cargo to get rid of.

* * *

So…did you get it?

Oh and I have narrowed the choices for the puppy's name to these three: **Issy, Hope and Rina,** supplied by _**Barn and co, Anonymous, **_and _**foxfire222 **_respectively. Thanks guys!

And thankyou to everyone who had reviewed or faved, love yous!

Aza


	16. Travelling

Sorry for the gap, awful lot of work to do in the lead up to Christmas.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 16:**

The four men were dragged out of the cubicle by a very irate TC, "So, you have no idea how the log got on the tracks?' he asked,

"Nope," said John. Sherlock had fallen silent, Lestrade was too busy trying to calm himself, and Moriarty was rubbing his jaw, unable to talk,

"Okay," As the TC dragged them towards the door, the engines below them slowed down and the compressors went to work, slowing the train down,

"Listen, can't you just get the cops to arrest us when we get to…wherever we are going?" asked John in a last ditch attempt to stay on the train,

"No," The train came to a complete standstill and the TC opened the door, the freezing night breeze rushing in, turning to face them completely. The puppy, ignored until now, jumped out the open door and landed with a slight tumble, and the official shook his before head,

"I don't want to know why you're chained up," he said, looking at them,

"It's a completely innocent reason," Lestrade piped in, and the TC raised his eyebrows,

'I'm sure it is. Now would you kindly get of my train?"

"Technically, it's not your train," said Sherlock, and John groaned silently, a little surprised he was even able to keep up with the conversation,

"Shut up, Sherlock," he muttered and the TC laughed,

"I'm sure you'll enjoy the crisp English night," he said waving a hand outwards,

"Are you sure you couldn't just-"

"I'm sure," The men stayed still for a second before John sighed,

"Alright, We're off," Lestrade led and soon they were standing on the rails, looking up at the blissfully warm carriage,

"Good day, or rather, night, gentlemen," with that the TC waved a flag that no one had noticed until now and the metal door slammed shut. John pulled everyone back and away from the train as the engine started up.

Sherlock lost his balance and soon everyone joined him on the ground, as the train pulled away, leaving a cold silence in its wake,

"Now what do we do?" asked Lestrade, turning to face the others,

"I need a doctor," Jim whined and John turned to face him,

'Really?" he asked,

"Yes. I think that moron broke my jaw," Jim motioned towards Lestrade who coloured at the name,

"Watch it or I might break your ribs next," Lestrade replied,

"Shut it, both of you," said John, examining Sherlock's form. He was lying down as best he could; His breathing somewhat erratic and occasionally he would wince, "We need to get him to a hospital," said John, looking at Lestrade who nodded,

"Yeah," he grimaced, 'I'm glad we went down to those docks," he said, smiling at John, as the puppy gently climbed up Sherlock's leg and settled on his chest. The detective raised one hand to rest it on the puppy, but didn't open his eyes,

'Same," said John and Moriarty groaned,

'Uh! Can you get anymore cliché?" he asked, receiving an elbow in his ribs from an irate John for his troubles.

As Moriarty chocked, another sound reached their ears,

'What's that?" asked Lestrade, raising his head. They were in a valley, with hills rising up on their left and right. The rail tracks ran right through the valley, cutting it in half, and while it might have been easy to build, it meant that they couldn't see if anyone was approaching from their position.

'A car,' said John and Moriarty chuckled,

'I think help's coming," even as he said it, a beam of light cut the night from the top of the hill and John felt a wave of relief wash over him. They were going to get Sherlock to a hospital. Everything was going to be alright. _Famous last words_ he thought, considering their luck that night.

The engine cut and two figures ran to the top of the hill, both carrying huge torches, which they swept in a wide arc. Finally, they spotted the men and John heard them yell something back at the car. Something didn't feel quite right about this whole situation.

"Greg…" John looked at the DI who also had a worried look on his face, somewhat accented by the moonlight that was shining at a strange angle,

"I know,' he said,

"I don't' Moriarty cut in and everyone ignored him,

"Sherlock." John gentle shook the detective, but didn't get a response, "Sherlock, wake up," he tried again and this time the man did open his eyes,

'Oh hi John," he said, a goofy smile appearing,

"Yes, hello Sherlock," for the fiftieth time that day, John felt like he was dealing with a five year old. _A very handsome five year old…oh, shut up!_ John shook his head. He was telling his own mind to shut up, he needed counseling.

The men ran down the embankment and Lestrade groaned, pulling his legs up so he could rest his head on them, _typical. Grab a ride on the train, travel halfway across England and then get caught by the people they were running away from!_

"Goddamn," muttered John and the pup seemed to agree with his sentiments, growling low in her throat.

The men approached them and John was surprised to see the one who lead them down wasn't wearing the cowl, "Hello," he said, his voice as smooth as honey and the glint in his eyes, visible by the dim light of the moon, cunning as a fox. John didn't reply. He just kept sitting where he was, staring up at them,

'Where's the letter?" he asked, his ridiculously white hair glinting as a torch passed over it,

"I don't know," it came out more a sigh than a statement,

"Yes you do," John bit his lip to keep silent as the man raised his leg and placed it on John's right, the already aggravated wound burning like the leg was a brand,

"Get off him," Lestrade's voice cut in, taking the man's gaze to Lestrade. John gasped as he increased the pressure,

"You don't tell me what to do, DI," he said and Lestrade raised an eyebrow,

"You're not as stupid as you look then, you figured out my title," John collapsed back in relief as the man released his leg and instead walked over to Lestrade, stepping over the dizzy Sherlock.

"You don't talk to me like that," he was smiling which, Lestrade knew, was never a good sign. Lestrade stayed silent, irritated by the fact that he had to crane his neck skywards to get a good look at him.

Sherlock moved slightly and the man was once again distracted, "and who do we have here?" he bent down and looked over Sherlock's barely moving body. John tensed up suddenly and Moriarty smirked; the man suddenly reached out a hand and poked Sherlock on his side. The detective's eyes flew open and his body recoiled, the action causing the chains to dig into his wrists,

"Stop it!" John yelled, and the only thing that kept him from leaping on the man was the fact that he was tied to the others.

His white hair, seeming to catch all the light, he stood and laughed, and got to his feet, "Well, my dear fellows," he addressed them like they were at a party and were not chained to each other about to be crated off to some location and tortured for the whereabouts of the letter. Sherlock sat up, and leaned against John, the puppy snuggling on his lap. Lestrade was staring up at the man with hatred and Moriarty actually managed to look bored, "If you'll come with us," the man turned around, muttered something to the six other men and then the captured were being dragged to their feet. Sherlock kept himself on standing by sheer willpower and support from both John and Lestrade. Slowly, the group made their way up the hill, a feat of great strength considering what the they had gone through. They were piled into the back of yet another limousine and this time, as well as been chained to the limo, the gap between Lestrade and Moriarty was closed as they added another link, bringing them together in a circle.

_If we even try to escape, we can't, _thought John with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; _no one can run backwards in these chains._ As Sherlock settled his head on John's shoulder again, the puppy climbed up into the doctor's lap and Lestrade leaned against the door. Moriarty stayed siting straight as the car started up, only one thought on his mind – that Sherlock was dying, and it played on a constant loop in his head. The psychopath had never been happier.

* * *

Dragged out of the car, John and Lestrade actually carrying Sherlock this time, they were lead across a muddy patch of the ground, set on a flat piece of land, the horizon visible north, south, east and west, _not near a city then,_ thought John as the doors of what appeared to be a hangar were slid open. With some difficulty, they managed to walk in and as soon as they crossed the threshold, the doors slid closed, with a loud bang that left their ears place was completely empty. There was nothing in here except the occasional spider, that waltzed across the roof, a hell of a lot more free than they were.

'Looks like we're stuck here," said Lestrade looking around, "It could do with some work," he said, attempting humour. They collapsed to the floor, glad to get off their tired feet, John and Sherlock's back against the wall, Lestrade and Moriarty facing them,

"Yeah, like some furniture," said John as he checked Sherlock's temperature. "It's going up," John added as the puppy ran around the place, excited at the newness of it all. She scratched at a part of the ground about twenty metres from where they were before getting bored and running back to them, jumping onto Lestrade's back. The man laughed as she scrambled and lent her a hand, so she ended up sitting on his shoulder. If dogs could smile, this one would be grinning from one pointed ear to the other.

"We should get some sleep," said John, and even Moriarty nodded,

"Yeah," the villain settled himself down, pulling Lestrade half on top of him by accident, and dropping the puppy, who rolled to a stop in front of Sherlock, content to lie by his side,

'Do you mind?" the DI asked, dragging himself off and therefore dragging Moriarty with him,

'Yes I do!" as they stared each other down, John shook his head and slid so he was lying on the floor, the chains pulling him to down actually lie on top of Sherlock, his head on the detective's chest. Lestrade almost smiled before looking away at his current predicament. He was _not_ under any circumstances sleeping on top of Moriarty. Oh god, that sounded wrong, never mind how it would look. But he was tired, and he needed some sleep. Swallowing every inch of his pride, with some difficulty, mind, he gave up and laid his head down on Moriarty's back. The man chuckled,

'Don't be so awkward, Greg, I'd never try anything on you," he said and John rolled his eyes,

'Either get a room or shut up," he said, his voice echoing around the hangar. Sherlock moved slightly underneath him, uncomfortable. John raised his head, as Sherlock opened his eyes,

"Hang on," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, more a rumble deep in his chest, _dear god, _John tried no to show anything on his face, _damn that voice is sexy…what am I thinking?_ Sherlock moved his hand and wrapped around John. The doctor stiffened at the new position then relaxed into the embrace. It was more comfortable this way. Nothing was meant by it, at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

* * *

It didn't take long for everyone to fall asleep. The wind outside picked up and the moon disappeared behind a cloudbank, casting the entire hangar into darkness, so that only shapes could be made out. However, the fever that made Sherlock fall asleep so easily, also woke him up. For the first time in a few hours, he was fully aware of his surroundings. His brilliant mind kicked into action and he catalogued his condition, _Worse than before,_ he thought, noticing the heat of his face, but then he also noticed the other reason why he was feeling so warm. John was curled up on his chest and he had an arm around the doctor. How did that happen?

Sherlock closed his eyes, ignoring the way his stomach flipped and tried but failed to stop his mind cataloguing every last place John's weight was on him. He could feel the doctor's muscles contract them relax as the man breathed in an out, a rhythmic process that left him feeling sleepy all over again. Suddenly, the doctor shifted, and brought his head up, so that his mouth was against Sherlock's neck and Sherlock froze – his mind went blank. Well, almost. It flashed back to hallucination. And he wondered how John would react if he were actually awake. Gently, Sherlock shook him until he stirred, his lips brushing against the detective's neck again, setting reactions of that Sherlock didn't even know he was capable off. As John woke fully Sherlock reminded himself to breathe,

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, his eyes were bright, and his blonde hair was exactly as it was in the hallucination – sticking up at odd angles. He also had that very cute 'what?' look on his face.

Sherlock's hand was still on his back and John was waiting for a reply, Sherlock realised, "I, I was just thinking," Sherlock cleared his throat, he'd never had such trouble talking before today,

'About?" John prompted, biting his lip slightly. Sherlock swallowed, despite the darkness, he could see every move that John made and it really wasn't helping his resolve to keep his lips to himself,

"Um, an experiment?"

'Now?" asked John, smiling despite the exasperated tone,

"Yeah, now," Sherlock glanced to the sleeping forms of Moriarty and Lestrade, 'Do you mind?"

"Do I mind wh-" John's question was cut off by Sherlock's mouth, moving almost hungrily against his own. The doctor suppressed a moan and replied in like, pressing Sherlock against the floor. He ran a hand down Sherlock's arm, his fingers light and Sherlock shivered at the touch. This was too good to be true – far too good. John tasted so…new, so _delectable_ thought Sherlock and wondered, for a split second if anyone was watching, but decided he didn't care. John suddenly pulled away, their breaths loud in the silent hangar, and Sherlock felt a stab of disappointment,

"Sherlock…" that voice saying his name was enough to make Sherlock have to physically stop himself seeking out more kisses, more of the taste of John, who was trying to compose himself and trying to get his body under control, "Sherlock," he tried again, "Not here," he said and the detective licked his bottom lip,

"Why?" he couldn't get his voice to go above a whisper,

'because you need medical attention and we need to get out of here," John smiled before leaning in again, placing a chaste kiss on the man's lips, "however, when we do get home…" he left the sentence hanging and Sherlock sighed,

"Damn you," he muttered,

'That's what you always say," said John, resting his head back down on Sherlock's chest, the latter sighing again,

"I wonder why," John was about to reply when there was a loud _clang _from outside,

'What now?" asked the doctor, sitting up fully this time, pulling on the chain and waking Moriarty and Lestrade up,

"I don't know," Sherlock raised himself into a sitting position with some difficulty. Lestrade joined them, running a hand across his face to wake himself up and Moriarty stayed on the ground, still asleep,

"What's up?"

'We don't know," John glanced at the DI, "but what ever it is, it's bound to be trouble,"

"Our luck," Sherlock grunted as he finally managed to get himself sitting and Moriarty woke up,

"Wait and see?" Lestrade stretched his leg out and yawned,

"Yep," John stared at the hangar door, as there was a click. _They'd better have food or I'm going to kill them_.

* * *

Yay! Another kiss, real this time. XD

Watcha think?

Aza


	17. Hope

Hey Guys! Having so much fun writing this! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Onto the chapter:

* * *

**Chapter 17**

The captured held their breath as the door slid open, creaking as the weathered metal scraped against the ground, the ball bearings all but gone thanks to the constant use. Moriarty opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows at the tense silence, and the way that the others' bodies were tensing, preparing for battle. Deciding he wanted a little trouble, Moriarty called out, "Who's there?" his voice so loud that he surprised everyone and there was a muffled oath from the door as whoever just entered jumped. Lestrade dragged Moriarty towards him and clamped his mouth shut, as the man struggled, the chain tangling in a way that cut across his neck. Lestrade was aware of this, but decided that it wouldn't kill him.

The hangar door slid shut again, and the person stopped walking, "Female," Sherlock whispered, judging by the weight of the footfalls,

'Of course I'm female, freak," and Lestrade was so surprised he let go of Moriarty who slumped to the floor, dragging in huge breaths,

'Donovan?" Lestrade asked, as the footsteps got closer and finally they could see a figure in the darkness,

'Yes boss," she said, walking still further in. She was actually smiling as she walked up to them, her teeth glinting, standing out against the darkness. The men stared up in utter shock at the woman who had just entered,

"Nice little party you got here," Donovan caught sight of the puppy, still sleeping and smiled a little more before turning back to the still stunned men. She sighed,

"Alright, I'll just do the talking, shall I?" she sank to the ground and settled with her back against the wall, a shiver running up her spine as she made contact with the frosty metal, "Oh, this is for you, by the way," she handed John a slip of white paper, thick and small, rather like the material used in a wedding invitation,

"What's this?" John finally managed to say, overcoming his surprise. Sherlock plucked it from his hands and opened it, unable to read anything by the dim light. Or maybe it was his sight that was refusing to work. Either way, he turned back to look at Donovan,

"I think it's the reason that's she's out here in the first place,' Sherlock looked at her, winced as he tweaked his side, then looked at John,

"Right," the doctor said, as Jim finally managed to sit up, a red mark on his neck, to stare at Lestrade,

'Bloody hell! I can have you sued for police brutality when we get back!" he said, looking at Lestrade. The DI ignored him and looked at Sally,

'Explain," was all he said and she nodded,

"Okay. You know how you and John just upped and disappeared when we were on the docks?" she asked, everyone nodded, 'Well, as you were getting ready to leave, further down, a speedboat pulled up. It threw water everywhere and several of our forensics team fell into the water. But that's not important. What really matters is that whoever was on the boat threw a package on the dock. It was too small to be a bomb so we opened it. With me so far?" she received four impatient nods,

"Well we opened the package. It contained a photo of you, John and your flatmate." Sherlock rolled his eyes at her as she continued, "You were at the park or something. It also contained the note you're holding," John and Lestrade glanced at it and Jim just looked bored, "It was a death threat,"

'What?" asked John, snatching it away from Sherlock, barely able to make out the lettering,

"It was!" Sally exclaimed, annoyed at being interrupted. The puppy whined at the volume of her voice, turned on her side, before falling asleep again. Sherlock placed a hand on the pup's belly as Sally resumed the story, "_Anyway, _I finished reading it just as you and John pulled away from the docks. I figured you'd better see this, so I ran to Anderson and asked his if he had the letter you had, Boss," there was a sharp intake of breath as Sally paused,

'You have the letter?" asked Sherlock,

"Yes," Sally looked at him, "Why?"

"Idiot," Sherlock breathed. Before the Sergeant could start on a rant at Sherlock, which would probably draw the guards' attention, wherever they were, Lestrade cut her off,

'Sally, keep going!" he hissed, and, after shooting a glare at Sherlock, who was smirking, she continued, "I took the letter from him, told him I'd be back later and left the scene. I followed you via the GPS tracker we have on the car," Lestrade nodded, "and I reached the place where you got kidnapped as you were being shoved into the limo,"

"Thank god you didn't try to stop them," said Lestrade, 'that could've resulted in all of us being tied together,"

"Spend an entire day chained to her?" Sherlock asked, as John nudged him to shut up. Sally took a deep breath,

"Suddenly, I feel like I never should've come," she said and Moriarty chuckled,

"Oh indeed," he said, "You shouldn't have," he grinned, "the letter is why we're all tied up as we are," he rattled the chains, making everyone wince because of the scraping noise it made against the stone floor.

"Carry on," said Lestrade, "how'd you find us here?"

'It was easy, I followed the limo,"

'And they didn't notice?" John asked, a genuine question, not the insulting queries Sherlock came up with,

"Nope," Sherlock ground his teeth. You could almost see the pride at not being spotted shining around the sergeant, "Well, I followed you, but I lost you when you went to the cliffs, because I had to stay much further behind,"

"Open ground," Lestrade nodded absentmindedly,

'Exactly! Well, I figured something was wrong when the farm lit up and men with torches were everywhere, combing the bushes and all that. I hid below the dashboard, and listened. I heard them saying you were heading towards the tracks and figured they had some sort of tracker on you,"

"They did," said John, grimacing at the thought of being captured – again.

'So I waited as they started their cars and followed at a safe distance. Eventually, they found you, because I saw them push you into the car when you were rounded up." She paused to draw a breath before continuing, even Sherlock had fallen silent, wanting to know how she had gotten into the hangar when they were sure the door was locked.

"I saw them pull up to this airfield,"

"We're on an airfield?" Jim was ignored as Sally continued and he found it incredibly annoying. He was not used to being ignored, "You were taken out of the car and placed in this hangar. I knew where you were. Unfortunately, there were two guards posted outside of here,"

'So how'd you get in?" John asked what they all wanted to know,

"I knocked 'em both out," she replied and Lestrade smiled,

"For how long, do you think?"

'Long enough," she replied.

* * *

The metal surrounding them creaked as the wind started to pick up, buffeting the hangar, trying to rip it from its foundations. The hangar was plunged into complete darkness as a cloud skimmed across the sky, hiding the moon before letting it reappear and allowing everyone to see again,

'Another storm coming," John muttered, looking up at the window, placed high, high above them, allowing the light to come in, and showing the slit of sky, covered in clouds,

"Brilliant," groaned Sherlock, sliding down the wall still further,

"We need to get out of here," said Donovan, looking at the men,

'How?" asked Lestrade "We are chained to each other. Moving is so unbelievably hard," They winced as something crashed outside, thrown down by the forceful wind,

'That's going to bring someone to check," said John, worried.

Even as he said it, voices, yelling to be heard over the building wind, reached them through the walls,

'Shit," said Sally, and Sherlock had to agree. Their chance at escape was running away as fast as the clouds were skimming across the sky,

"They're going to find the guards," Sherlock suddenly realised, "They're going to know something has gone wrong,"

"Holy Crap," Lestrade sighed, 'C'mon! Up!" he stumbled to his feet, and Sally jumped up to steady him, the chains weighing him down, 'Goddamn, they feel even heavier,"

"A psychological effect, I assure you," Sherlock grunted, as he got to his feet as well, John wrapping an arm around his waist to stop the detective from falling over,

"Aw, isn't that nice," Jim jumped to his feet, fresh as a daisy, "They make such a cute couple," he looked at Sally, "I wonder who wears the dresses?" Lestrade smacked him across his head with the chain, almost sending the man crashing back to the floor, 'Shut up and walk," John raised as eyebrow,

"Might not want to do that again," he said, 'Last thing we need is an unconscious body. The weight would be impossible to drag around," Moriarty whimpered and Sally shook her head at the pathetic sight,

'Are we moving or not?" she asked, impatience clear in her voice,

'No," Jim rubbed the back of his head, "I can't see straight,"

"It doesn't matter anyway," said Lestrade, doing his best to control the urge to hit him again, "You're walking backwards. Now, march!"

* * *

Slowly, oh so slowly, they made their way across the hangar, Sherlock unable to walk without John, who, despite his size and his own chains to carry didn't complain about the extra weight,

'Do you want some support?" Sally asked, walking around so that she was on the other side of Sherlock. The detective, though he hated the idea of getting any help from Donovan of all the people, knew he was putting extreme pressure on John.

"Alright," he said, and she slipped under his arm. Sherlock leaned on her, tentatively at first, before allowing all his weight to fall on her. John barely contained a sigh as Sherlock's weight was lifted off him,

"Better?" Sherlock asked, looking at John who smiled gratefully,

'Much, thankyou, Sherlock," he said, "and thanks, Sally," he added. She smiled at him and then looked straight ahead. They were nearing the doors now, and the voices outside were louder. It sounded like they were trying to shift something.

Sally slipped out from underneath Sherlock as they reached the doors, and he leant against the freezing metal, the temperature a relief to his fever,

'You alright?" John asked, quietly, so that the others couldn't actually hear what he was saying. Sherlock smiled and nodded,

"I'll be fine," he said, looking at the small man. John turned his attention back to what Sally was doing. She had her eye pressed against the door, and the puppy, now awake, was at her heels, pawing at the door, as if it were trying to get it open. Finally, Sally looked back at them,

"We can't go anywhere," she said,

'Why?" Lestrade asked, worry creasing his brow. God only knew where his blood pressure was going to go at this rate,

"Because a metal sheet has fallen across the doorway,"

'Jamming the bodies of the guards?' asked Sherlock. Sally smiled,

"Yeah. They won't be suspicious of us. It will give us more time,"

* * *

As they stood there, the puppy got bored with the door and wandered away from the humans, much as she liked them. Her mind was inquisitive, and she had seen something earlier…nose to the ground, she sniffed for the difference in smells. There had been an odd, musky sort of fragrance before. Where was it? She stopped and scratched at the ground, before continuing. Finally, she found the place – twenty metres from where her masters had been lying, she had found it when they first walked. She looked up at the humans trying to think of a way out and barked once. Sherlock was the only one to look at her. She cocked her head to the side and barked again. This time they all stopped and looked at her,

'What it is, girl?" John asked in a stage whisper. The puppy barked again, and pawed at the ground,

"I think she found something." Lestrade said, watching the puppy. Sally walked away from the door and crossed the ground in between her and the pup in twelve easy strides. Kneeling down, running her fingers over the arctic cement, the cold biting at her fingertips, the Sergeant felt a notch there.

Hope flaring in her chest, she ran her hand around it and found a straight line, which turned at a corner, 'There's something here! It's square!" John glanced at Lestrade, before putting an arm around Sherlock and forcing Jim to walk. Moving quicker this time, they made their way over, puffing and panting like they had just run a marathon,

'What is it?" asked Lestrade, kneeling down and taking Jim with him. Sally didn't answer, but stared around the space,

"Hang on," she said, running over to where there was a massive pile of boxes. Jim winced as she dropped a box with a loud bang, before she found what she was looking for and ran back to them. It was a plank of wood, just thin enough to wedge into the groove. Not needing words, she placed the wood into position, and the four men (Moriarty still backwards) lined up behind her and together, they put pressure on the stick. There was a splintering sound as the wood cracked followed by the sound of cement against cement,

"It's moving!" John gasped, applying more pressure.

* * *

Outside, the wind was a terrible monster, cutting into everything and everyone, curling around the hangar and attacking the men trying to free their colleagues trapped under the metal sheet outside; being hit by leafs, twigs, branches and all sorts of other debris, picked up and hurled by the invisible hands of the almost living creature. Inside the hangar, it sounded like there were souls in torment, wailing their cries and pleas to be set free, as if they were burning in the belly of hell. Sherlock gritted his teeth as the sound rang in his ears, his hearing heightened by the fever, and ignored it, putting as much pressure as he could on the stick. It continued to splinter, but the slab of concrete was now an entire inch above the floor. Sally, still leaning on the stick with both hands, the wood threatening to give way at any minute, stuck a foot into the crack made by lifting. Using every last ounce of strength she heaved it up with her legs, aided by the others. Finally, with a keening sound covered by the wind outside, the metal slab stood at ninety degrees, then, to the panting of the team, fell over with a resounding crash, pushed by their momentum.

Everyone collapsed to the floor with a huge sigh of relief, and Sally rubbed her burning calf muscles,

"Dear God," she panted, looking at the men behind her, "was that ever intended to move?" Lestrade chuckled in a tired way and Moriarty grunted in response, whereas Sherlock closed his eyes for a second as his vision swam in front of him. He was fighting a losing battle with his body. Before he could think anymore, John placed a hand on his shoulder, terrified to feel the heat through Sherlock's clothes,

"We need to move," the doctor said as Sherlock opened his eyes. Lestrade and Sally nodded,

'Yeah," The DI crawled to the edge of the square hole now opened up and stared into it. There were electric lamps on the walls, but the light they threw was ghostly, because of the rough wall of the passage, seeming to flicker as if they were fire torches, moving with the wind,

"This place, what ever it is, is still being used," said John, who had also joined Lestrade at the edge. They were about a metre and a half from the ground,

"By who, however, is the question," Sally looked at Sherlock and Jim, "Are you two coming, then?" she asked and Sherlock nodded wearily, dragging himself to John's side as Moriarty opted to walk, tightening the chains and making Lestrade wince. Seriously, whoever made these had no consideration for the wearer; the edges were so goddamn sharp.

"Into the unknown, then?" asked John, staring at the floor, before looking at his companions, his eyes coming to rest on the puppy that found their escape route, sitting by Sally's side, her eyes glinting in the light from below, one ear up and the other down,

"As always," Lestrade heaved a sigh,

"How bout we let Hope go first?" Sherlock asked, making everyone turn to him and the puppy to raise her ears. Sherlock looked at their faces, pale, fairly muddy, accompanied by a few cuts and bruises and completely shocked at what he had just said,

"What?" he asked, his voice breaking at the end, hoarse from a lack of water,

"Hope?" The corners of John's mouth turned upwards, "You _are_ a romantic, Sherlock," he teased, making everyone laugh, including Jim,

"Never." Sherlock managed to look smug, before raising one eyebrow and considering then men and Sally, "If you ever tell anyone, I'll kill you all," Sherlock conceded before motioning for the puppy to jump down, "Well off you go," he said, his voice softer than normal, "Jump in, Hope," The puppy took a long, hard look at her new master, then the newly christened pup jumped into the hole, landing with a tumble of dust and spiked fur. At least she wasn't going to be bored anymore.

* * *

Think Hope suits her? I like that name. :)

Thanks to everyone for your support and encouragement, please tell me if I can improve in any way!

Aza


	18. Hate Cliffs

I was extremely bored when I wrote this, so please…forgive me. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 18:**

The light, which was actually quite dim, was ridiculously bright to Sherlock's sensitive eyes. The throbbing headache that was situated in both his temples seemed to be quite eager to burn a path through his brain. He closed his eyes and leant against the walls as the others followed him down. John hung from the roof before letting himself fall, quickly followed by Lestrade and Moriarty. Sally was the last to come down and landed the easiest out of everyone there,

'Right or left?' she asked, as the corridor stretched both ways and then turned,

"Which way do you think leads to an exit?" asked Lestrade. Sally looked left and right again, before coming to a decision,

"Left," They turned slowly and followed the sergeant down, Jim searing as he walked into the wall,

"Ow," he whined, rubbing his elbow,

'Grow up," John snapped back. Hope ran ahead, pawing at the ground, jumping up to swipe at something before running to Donovan and then back to Sherlock, who was barely able to keep his eyes open,

"Hey Girl," he muttered, as she circled around him. It was as if she knew that there was something wrong with him. Sherlock stumbled as his foot connected with a stone that had been embedded in the ground. John's hand shot out and he steadied the detective,

'"Sherlock, are you alright?" Lestrade stopped and turned to face the man. Sherlock swallowed and leaned on the wall. Donovan walked back to them,

"Do you want some help?" she may not like him but she was concerned for him – after all, who was going to catch the criminals if anything happened to him?

'I'll be fine," Sherlock couldn't even raise his voice above a whisper. He was completely drained,

'I told you that you needed to eat more," John ran his hand up and down the consulting detective's arm, a comforting motion that Sherlock appreciated,

"Eating more wouldn't help me now," said Sherlock,

"We need transportation," said Lestrade. He was feeling the strain too. His back was aching and his feet were sore from the amount of walking that they had just done,

"Like what?" Sally leant against the wall.

Suddenly, the entire ground shook as something – a motor? Started up underneath them,

'What the hell is that?" Sherlock asked, wincing as the vibrations ran up his body,

"Dunno," John looked down, a crease on his forehead as he thought, calling upon memories,

"Can we sit down?" Jim demanded, as Sally rolled her eyes and Lestrade answered,

"NO," the word coming out more forceful than he intended,

"That's it!" everyone looked at John, Sherlock forcing his eyes open at the tone of his voice,

"What's it?" Sherlock managed, resisting the temptation to slide down to the ground,

'We're in a mine," said John, greeted by blank stares and silence, 'we are…" John turned and as he did, the ground shook again, something passing below them, ' this was the old aluminium mine's. They were put out of commission in the seventeen hundreds," Sherlock pushed himself off the wall, regaining his feet, a new light in his eyes,

"Right, and they were shut down," he said,

'What, haven't deleted the information yet?" asked Donovan, trying to get the normalcy back between her and Sherlock. She didn't like the sign that he had stopped snarling at her with his comments,

"Nope," Sherlock managed a weak smile, 'the smell of must've alerted Hope to the difference," he said all eyes finding the puppy, chasing a dragonfly that had entered at some point.

"So what do we do?" asked Jim,

"We find the exit. We're on the highest level," said Lestrade, catching onto John's plan,

"Yeah, and then we walk out of here. But first…" John looked at Sally,

"Can I see the letter?" he asked, holding his hand out. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled it out. Jim's eyes glinted as he caught sight of it. John opened the top and found a very long letter,

"Huh," he said,

"Read it out," Sherlock breathed, coughing slightly. The entire left side of his abdomen had gone numb – good because there was no pain, bad because that meant it was getting worse,

"In front of him?" asked Donovan, nodding to Jim,

'_He _has a name," Jim folded his hands over his chest, quite a feat considering the chains,

"Shut it," Lestrade turned his attention back to John, who started to read out loud,

"Dear John," Sally couldn't resist a smile, and John raised his eyebrow before continuing, "It's been a while, a really long time, hasn't it. Look, what happened in Afghanistan, that was…unforgivable," John snorted, "Bloody bastard." He sighed then continued, "But, I have been working outside the law recently as, well, I could hardly return to a normal life. I know things, and I've met some truly unsavoury people. One of them being a certain Jim Moriarty. I am aware that you are living with Sherlock Holmes and so I figured this information would be useful," John paused to look up at the man in question. Jim was flushed and he had a very strange glint in his eyes. A little like the one before he gave the order to fire at the swimming pool. Sherlock motioned to continue; he wasn't sure he could stay awake for much longer. John looked back down, the light from the lamps on the side not very powerful, barely enough to light up the words,

"Jim operates out of a warehouse in London's east end. The address is on the attached sheets, and I hope you will be able to catch him. But there are other things that you need to know. You know the gang _The Silver Ring,_ right?" John looked up as Lestrade and Donovan exclaimed,

'We've been after them for seven years now," she said, looking between John and Sherlock,

"They have been responsible for kidnappings, bomb threats, murder, rape, theft, vandalism," Lestrade put in,

"The list goes on," Donovan added. John turned back to the letter,

"Well, their headquarters are the mines we trained in ten years, ago, remember?" John swallowed, the thought of having to crawl through the cobweb-infested mines, mud underneath him, slipping, falling several meters, snakes, rats, lizards, skeletons of men long dead. He shivered involuntarily before continuing, "I've been there. It's a labyrinth under there and the drug stores are massive. It goes on and on, and they have a train system, that takes you from one place to another. They manufacture weapons and even cars, all used in their activities. They are the biggest underworld mob in Europe, and here's your chance to take them down. I know you don't trust me, but listen, just this once to advice. Take the cops, storm the underground vaults and you'll find what you want. To get in, however, I can't help you. I was blindfolded as I was led here, and have no clue as to where anything is. Your sincerely, General." John looked back up, folding the letter and shoving it into his pocket,

"He wasn't lying," said Sherlock, and John nodded, "That's who kidnapped us,"

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed, 'that's why they're so well trained,

"We can hit them where it hurts,' Donovan looked excited. Her eyes were bright and she wanted very much to run down there and arrest everyone,

'We can't" said Lestrade and John nodded,

'Not in our current state. Let's focus on getting out of here," Before anyone could say anything else, Hope barked and voices sounded down the corridor, coming from their right,

"Shit." Lestrade looked around. There was nowhere to hide,

'I don't think we have a choice about storming the place, John," he said and Sherlock groaned. Excellent. Fighting. Because he wasn't struggling with simply breathing right now. Of course he wasn't.

Sally un-holstered her gun and flicked the safety off, pointing it in the direction of the voices. Sherlock sent up a silent prayer and Jim waited for the pull on the chain that was bound to come. These people had a thing with running.

The unwitting men rounded the corridor, dressed in black overalls, with AK-47's on their arms, and froze as a strange sight greeted them. A puppy was staring at them, a gun was pointed at them, and there were four men all chained up,

"Drop the guns –slowly – and I won't shoot your heads off," the female called and the two mob members looked at each other

"Who are you?" one asked,

"It doesn't matter,' Sherlock called out, managing to stand on his own, although he was still fairly unsteady on his feet, 'just drop the guns.' They exchanged a glance, and then suddenly, they were moving. The AK-47's were loaded and were about to fire when Sally shot twice, hitting the guns both times. Yelping as the bullet seared their hands, they dropped the guns. Leading the way, Lestrade ran forwards, dragging everyone else with him. Sherlock found the energy to run with them, but was sweating by the time Lestrade had elbowed the one who spoke in the ribs and knocked him out and John had hit the other once on the back on the head, causing him to fold like a leaf.

* * *

John turned to Sherlock as Donovan reached down and cuffed their legs together with their hands, a position that looked quite painful. Jim watched as John put an arm around Sherlock's waist, the detective putting all his weight on the smaller man. This was pathetic. All it would take was one hit and Sherlock would be out for the count…but Lestrade was in between Jim and the detective. Jim ground his teeth. So tantalisingly close and yet so unobtainable.

* * *

John felt his heart jump in his throat as he watched Sherlock, who was no longer able to hold his own weight. Gently, John let him slide to the ground. Hope whined as Sherlock's head lolled to the side. He was asleep, "Greg," Lestrade turned to face John and his eyes fell on Sherlock. He sighed,

"How bad is it?" he asked,

"He's going to die if he doesn't get medical attention right now," Lestrade swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat.

As they talked, Sally followed the corridor the now unconscious gang members came up from.

It darkened as the lamps got dimmer and the corridor wider. Shaking off the feeling that she was walking down into a trap, she continued and when she reached a cross roads she had never felt happier. A smile on her face, she walked back up the corridor and around the corner to see Lestrade and John picking up the unconscious Sherlock,

"Give him here," she said, walking over and bending as they put an arm around her,

"Where'd you go?" asked Lestrade,

'I've found a way out of here," she said,

"Really?" John's face lit up and Jim looked relived. Finally, he could get away from Lestrade.

"Yes, really," Sally smiled, and she led the group, walking backwards thanks to the metallic circle they were forced to form, towards the cross roads. John gasped as he took in what they saw in front of them, sitting on a pair of miniature tracks – a rail cart, used to transport things in the subterranean city,

"Bloody hell," he said, the last time he rode one of these being when he was training with the general. It was dangerous and some of these tracks were probably not functioning all that well.

"Sally," John frowned as they climbed in, the chains clashing against the metal bucket they were about to travel in, "Do you even know how to operate one of these?" he asked. She grinned, as she handed Sherlock to him, the detective's breaths coming in short gasps,

"That's what you're here for," she replied. Lestrade grunted as he swung himself over. Moriarty followed, tripping and landing on top of Lestrade, who swore as his head hit the metal, both of them crashing to the ground, pulling painfully on John's chains,

"Get off me!" he said for what felt like the tenth time that day, or night – it was ridiculously hard to tell when you haven't seen the sun for as long as they hadn't,  
"I swear," Jim used the edge of the cart to pull himself up, 'I'm really not going to try anything on you. I told you last night," Sally looked between the two of them as she pulled off her jacket to cover the shivering Sherlock. John, irritated by the chains, was trying to figure out the controls. They had been upgraded. While they had the old fashioned breaks, they also needed the start key, which was still in the ignition. As John tried to figure it out, there was a rumbling from below them,

"Hurry up, John!" said Sally.

Quickly doing some last minute checks, John looked back at his team just as the puppy jumped in, "Oh, almost forgot you," said Sally, ruffling her ears. She seemed to look a little put out at being forgotten but curled up by Sherlock's side with a contented whine,

"Ready?" he asked, as the rumbling grew louder,

'Let her rip," Lestrade said, grabbing onto the side. John turned the key and the engine below them started up. Leaning out and keeping one hand on the brake, John pressed the booster button to get this thing moving.

Nothing happened for a second, then suddenly they were hurtling through the air. Sally couldn't help the scream as they were thrown backwards by the force and John only just managed to keep his footing, standing at the front of the cart. The walls, black now, as they suddenly took a steep dive, flashed past them, and the brakes screamed as John applied them, the thought that they would go into a corner and fly off the tracks an unappealing one. They shot through the tunnels, the sounds of the wheels loud in the once silent air. Deeper and deeper they went, darker and darker the walls got, the electricity no longer reaching this far down. A sharp right later and suddenly, it was over-bright. John hit the brakes as they started to go uphill and blinked several times to get his sight back. As they came to a complete standstill, John took in the sight that spread out in the underground cavern, for miles and miles, with a hundred men and women working on the project,

'Bloody hell," Lestrade whispered, sitting up and staring at the space.

There were belts and belts of machinery, all carrying something packaged in white. It was being wrapped by some people and then boxed by others. The light down here came from a massive chandelier, hanging from the earth ceiling, lit by hundreds of candles,

"By the gods, drugs?" asked Sally, staring at the mass production line below them,

"I would say so," said Lestrade. The scale on which the production was happening astounded even Jim. Lestrade looked at his companions, his eyes bright,

"If we bring this down…" he paused, "It'll be a huge cash in, there must be million of dollars of cocaine down there," he gestured frantically with his hands,

"Oh yeah." John agreed.

Suddenly echoing through the vast space, an alarm rang out, silencing the workers below. They all looked up – and caught sight of the parked railcar, and the four dots that looked back at them from their elevated position. From entrances on the ground level, what looked to John, Lestrade, Sally and Jim from their height of over thirty metres, storm troopers ran in, armed with the same AK-47's they had picked up,

"I think we've been discovered," said Lestrade. They watched as the troopers stopped and spotted them, "There they are!" one yelled,

"I think we've overstayed our welcome," said John, releasing the brake and starting the engine. A little too slowly for comfort, the cart began its climb up the hill,

"John," the medic glanced back to Sally who pointed back down to the ground floor. The workers were packing boxes away and troopers were jumping into their own rail cars,

"Shit. Move, you rust bucket," John gunned the small engine, with little effect, as the incline got steeper. Behind them, they heard the rattling of another cart,

'Hurry up, John!" Lestrade called, pointing the Ak-47 behind them. As the rumbling got louder and the great chandelier was lowered, they finally crested the hill,

"Hold on!" John called.

There was a moment of stillness. John glanced back to Sherlock, lying on the floor of the cart, Sally and Lestrade, holding onto their guns, determinedly pointing behind them and Jim, lazing around like he was king of the place. And then they were hurtling through space once again. John swore as the incline dipped and they plummeted several metres. Holding on for dear life, he noticed the track changer up ahead, and as they passed, whacked it, changing direction of the cart.

As they tore into yet another corner, the gang troopers pulled up behind them, shooting out of another tunnel, "Surrender peaceably and we won't kill you!" John winced as they shouted through the megaphone,

"Never!" Lestrade yelled back, _Famous last words, _he thought, firing several rounds to get their point across,

"Duck!" yelled John as they spun around a corner and a bridge came into view. There was a satisfying clunk as one of their chasers got knocked out of the cart.

"Where are we going?" Sally yelled as John took another corner, applying the brakes, the sparks lighting up the rails in front of him. Suddenly, they were in another cavern, on a bridge that was missing more than a few planks, 'Shoot the bridge!" John yelled, and Lestrade and Sally did so. As they plunged back into the tunnels, the chasing cart fell to the ground the sound echoing around the rock walls. John was about to say good job when a loud grinding sound reached their ears. Lestrade stood and walked to the front,

"What's that sound?" They were travelling straight down now, the brake pointless as gravity pulled them in,

"No clue," John grunted as the brake threatened to rip itself out of his hand,

"JOHN!" the medic spun to see yet another cart behind them, and this time, there was no negotiation. Both he and Lestrade threw themselves to the ground as a hail of bullets sprayed across where they had both been standing, ricocheting off the walls and the cart.

Sally ran to the front and grabbed the break, spotting the turn up ahead. Gritting her teeth, she tried to slow the cart – to no avail,

"Greg! John! Moriarty!" The villain stayed where he was, until Lestrade dragged him up bodily and pushed him to the front. Once again, everyone leant on the brake, the sound of metal on metal ear-splitting. "Oh, that's not good," Lestrade, panted, as they tore around the corner, the cart tilting onto its side, riding on two wheels. Using their body weight, they brought it back to the tracks with a bump and John was about to release a sigh of relief when he noticed what he was holding - the brake, detached from the holder, and no longer on the wheel,

"Fuck," they all looked at him and Jim paled,

"I'm too young to die," he muttered. All four of them looked straight ahead at road for the now out of control cart. Ducking as their pursuers shot again, they whipped around the bend and came to a bridge – the same one they shot a gigantic hole through.

With yells that were probably heard all the way in London, John grabbed Sherlock and pinned him to the floor, Hope attached herself to John's leg, Sally, Lestrade and Jim grabbed the side as they flew straight off the rails and through air. _If we make it through this, God, I swear, I'll never swear again,_ John thought, closing his eyes and waiting for the impact.

And boy, did that impact come hard. Knocking the wind out of everyone, turning their legs to jelly, the cart hit the earth on all four wheels. Behind them, they registered the sound of the pursuing cart and Lestrade was the first to look up as they entered the exit,

"JOHN!" he yelled and the doctor looked up in time to see the hole in the wall. Now travelling without rails, the cart sped on through the downhill slope. Almost running over some of the workers, it took the turn and John could see light ahead – "We're free!" yelled Jim, but no one else agreed with him as they caught sight of what awaited them ahead, "Stick the rod in the wheels!" Sally yelled, "That opening is hundred of miles up in a cliff! We're going to fall!" John scrambled to the front and jammed the former brake into the wheels. It screamed in protest, the sparks hitting his hands, but they were still travelling fast and the entrance was fifty metres away. Forty metres. Thirty metres. "C'mon!" Sally said, the cart was slowing, but not quickly enough. Twenty metres. John sighed, and picked Hope up,

"I hope you've confessed your sins," Ten metres. Donovan turned to Lestrade and hugged him,

"Been meaning to do that for a while. Thankyou. For everything." Lestrade smiled at her, turning to thump patted John on the back, who was dragging Sherlock to his feet, the detective stirring,

"It's been nice knowing you, John," he said,

"You too, Greg. Sally." John shook hands with them, turning to Sherlock, who regained his senses. He needed no explanation, "Love you,' he mumbled, and John, not particularly caring anymore, leaned in, planting a kiss firmly on his partner's lips. And suddenly, they were in open air.

The smell of salt and sea reached their senses and the sky, grey and dark stretched out before them, lightning cracked the black clouds and rain drops fell, joining Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Hope and Jim Moriarty, on their long, long fall back to earth.

* * *

Calm down. It's not over yet. Just figured you know, everyone's saying no cliffhangers, so I decided that I'd just put an actual cliff into play…

*evil laugh* ahem.

I'm good now.

Promise.

No more crazy stunts like this anymore. *angel's halo*

Aza 3


	19. This is romantic

Nehehe. Deleted this then retyped six times. But I'm happy with it now.

Enjoy: The exploits of Sherlock and John, Greg, Sally, Hope and Jim.

**Disclaimer: **None of which belong to me… sad really.

* * *

**Chapter 19:**

The world came back slowly. Incredibly slowly. Lestrade opened his eyes to be greeted with a view of dark skies above him, and the feel of a freezing breeze, coming off the ocean _I can see…_Lestrade blinked and then sat up suddenly, _I'm not dead!_ Lestrade turned to look around him and found he was sitting on a beach…but Sherlock and John weren't there. Looking to his left, Moriarty and Sally were lying, unconscious, next to him.

"Donovan!" Lestrade crawled painfully over to her, trampling Moriarty on his way. Every muscle was aching and it felt like he had been run over by the cart they had been in. Lestrade put his sandy hand to Donovan's neck and felt relief spread through him as he felt her pulse, still beating strongly. At her boss's touch, Donovan's eyes flickered open, "Boss…" she breathed, her voice croaky.

"Can you remember anything?" asked Lestrade,

'Only up until when we went over…then it was grey…and then black…" she sat up slowly, using her boss for support. Moriarty mumbled something and shifted as Lestrade dragged on the chains.

"Where's Sherlock and John and how come we're not chained to them any more?" the DI asked, his head throbbing. Donovan shrugged and took in her boss's appearance. He had a nasty bruise running down his neck and he had several cuts on his face from hitting something or the other,

'Boss, are you alright?" she asked, and the man nodded, sitting back on his heels,

"I'll be fine," he said, looking around them. They were at the base of a huge cliff, not the one they plummeted out of, though. He was sure that they had fallen into the ocean, not straight onto sand and they were dripping wet,

"What's the time?" he asked and Donovan shook her head,

"No idea," she replied, staring out to the sea. They could have been washed down and away from the cliff they had fallen off. Sherlock and John could be anywhere…hopefully they were still chained together. At least they'd have each other, then.

* * *

Even though his entire body was on the verge of shut down, Sherlock was the first to regain consciousness. There was a light pattering of rain falling from the dark skies, but Sherlock knew he was already wet. Dripping wet, in fact. Opening his eyes by pure force of willpower Sherlock was amazed to find he was, in fact alive…the last thing he remembered was everyone yelling, a sound of metal against metal that dug into his senses…and John's lips against his. Or was that a hallucination? _So hard to tell_ Sherlock almost laughed, and then realised how crazy that would look and sound.

Hauling himself up, Sherlock winced as his abdomen twinged, and then he noticed that it was actually quite painful. Groaning he turned to his companion. John's chest was rising and falling, but his arm was red, turning steadily redder, "Jesus," whispered Sherlock, though the whisper was unintentional. He just had no energy. Dragging himself through the soft white sand of the beach, Sherlock covered the metre between him and John and laid a hand on the man's chest, 'John," he said, shaking him slightly. He shook again and John's moaned, his head turning to the side. Unwilling to give up, Sherlock shook the doctor again and this time, he got an intelligent response, though the doctor's eyes were still closed, "Sherlock, I don't want to work this case. I'm tired," Sherlock chuckled,

'We're not working a case John," and the doctor's eyes snapped open staring at Sherlock,

'We're alive…we fell on rocks, and we're alive," The detective was beginning to wonder whether he should say something when John laughed like a madman,

'WE'RE ALIVE!" He grabbed both sides of Sherlock's face and kissed the surprised man, before climbing to his feet, dragging the detective with him.

'Where are we?" asked John looked back at the detective, who was leaning on the shorter man,

"I don't know John, but being alive should get us out of here," he added dryly and John rolled his eyes.

Unlike everyone else, John knew exactly what happened, and the only thing he couldn't remember was the last hour. But he knew that they had plummeted off the cliff into an ocean. The rocks below them tore their cart apart, throwing them in every direction and breaking the chains that held him and Sherlock to Lestrade and Moriarty. Unable to concentrate on anything other than Sherlock and Hope, John had swum against the tide and took them away from the cliff. He had no idea where they were; all he knew was that he had kept on swimming, keeping both Sherlock and the puppy alive in the freezing ocean. He had pulled them to land, checked that Sherlock was breathing and then proceeded to collapse from the exhaustion.

Deciding sitting down was smarter than standing, he fell back to the soft sand below them, the light mist that was falling delicious on his lips. Licking the rain of them, he turned to Sherlock and Hope, who was still asleep, her fur covered in sand,

'She needs a bath," he muttered as Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder,

'We all do," he muttered, not needing to raise his voice very much at all. They fell silent, listening, instead, to the sound of the waves crashing onto the shoreline, the darkness surrounding them easing as dawn drew in.

"Well isn't this romantic?" asked John, a slightly hysterical note to his voice,

"Oh very," Sherlock chuckled, his wet curls tickling John's neck, "I mean you know, we just survived a three hundred to four hundred metre fall, didn't get cut up by rocks, managed to swim to shore, are dripping wet, cold, tired and hungry, have a puppy with us and oh, yes, we're chained to each other," Sherlock managed to lift his head to look into John's amused and tired eyes,

"Exactly," said John, his warm breath blowing over Sherlock's face. Sherlock smiled,

"Well, at least at we'll have a story to tell at our anniversary," he said, "my mother, 'How did you two meet?" Sherlock laughed to himself, as he imagined the scene, 'in a morgue, mother. Oh yeah, and we became a couple when John got a piece of wood stuck his leg down at the London docks because a boat blew up." John laughed, his voice echoing around the cliffs that surrounded their little bay, which was steadily getting wetter and wetter as the misting started to turn into rain.

"We really should move, you know," said John, noticing the wound in his arm starting to burn as the cold water washed over it. At least there was no chance of infection,

"Yeah, but I can't be bothered," Sherlock muttered, nuzzling into John's collar bone,

"You're not actually letting me gather an argument when you distract me like that," John replied,

"Yeah well." Sherlock completed the scene by wrapping his arms around the doctor's waist, relishing the warmth he provided, "You're comfy,"

"I'm taking that as a compliment and not a hint that I should hit the gym," John said. He looked past Sherlock as Hope sat up, one ear up and the other down,

'I wonder where the others are," Sherlock mumbled into John's chest,

"They'll be on the other side of the headland," John didn't add the _I hope_ part of the sentence. He just figured they would be carried in the same direction as him and Sherlock, "C'mon," John said as the puppy's wet nose brushed against his right arm, her eyes shining,

'Well you look fresh as a daisy," he said, looking at Hope, who barked her agreement,

"I don't want to go," Sherlock whined,

'Oh yes you do," said John, "We have to find Greg, Sally and Jim," he said and Sherlock sighed.

Together, they got to their tired feet, and John shuffled over to where the sand was wet from the waves that were coming onto the land, "Let's walk,"

'We can hardly fly out of here. Walking is our only option," Sherlock replied and the puppy barked, happy to be moving. She ran out into the water and then back onto the land, and looked up at John as if she were actually asking where they were going, "That way," said John, pointing to the headland. The puppy turned fell in line with them. It was going to be quite a walk.

* * *

By the time they had rounded the headland, there was a tinge of brightness on the horizon, and the rain was coming down hard, but at least it wasn't as heavy as it had been. John leant against the rough rock and stared out at the empty beach they faced. He turned to Sherlock who looked as disappointed as he did,

'They're not here," he said, finding the need to point out the obvious, but the puppy didn't seem to notice the disappointment. Hope bounded up the sand, to where it was actually quite dry and barked twice. John furrowed his brow,

"HOPE!" he called, trying to be heard over the waves and the rain. The pup barked again, almost insistently and John sighed, "C'mon," he said, and leading the half asleep Sherlock, he walked to where the puppy was and saw what she saw. Before he could say anything, a figure emerged from the cave, obviously alerted by the barking.

Suit in tatters, and hair ridiculously spiky, Greg stood at the entrance of the cave unbelieving,

'John? Sherlock? Hope?" he looked down at the puppy before back to the men. John managed a weak smile of relief,

'It had better be warm in there," he said, and the DI smiled, running out of the cave, dragging the protesting and still chained up Moriarty with him. He pulled both of them into a bear hug and John winced as his ribs were squeezed,

"Ow," he muttered, but he was grinning and so was Greg,

'Let's get inside,' he said,

"Yeah, lets," said Moriarty, who had his arms folded and didn't look too happy at the fact that his formerly damp clothes were now dripping in the rain,

"We're alive," said Lestrade, as he led everyone into the cave,

'That's great," Sherlock drawled, as glad as John of finding Lestrade alive. They walked into a massive cavern and almost melted at the sight of a warm fire, blazing and tended by the Sally. She gasped as she saw them and, forgetting that she hated Sherlock, she ran up to him, pulling him into a hug and then doing the same with John, "You're alright!" she exclaimed, taking in their bedraggled appearance,

"So are you," John replied and she smiled,

"Now I want to say something," she said and John raised an eyebrow,

"You wanted us alive for a statement?" he groaned like a grandpa as he sank to the sandy floor, followed by Sherlock, Greg and Jim, the warmth from the fire washing over him,

'Yep," Sally leant against the wall, a smug smile on her face,

'I saw you kissing Sherlock," She said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. John groaned and the cave echoed with laughter, warm and happy, drowning out the noise of the pounding rain and crashing waves.

They were alive, and they were going to make it. Just as soon as they figured out where the hell they were and how they were going to get back to Scotland Yard. Sometimes, even a genius like Sherlock could really do with a cab and a good GPS system. Oh and a shock blanket.

* * *

See? No more dangerous Cliffhangers. Did you like it? I Hope so :D

**MERRY CHRISTMAS**! Hope you and your family stay safe for the holidays.

Aza


	20. Two Hours

Thankyou for all the continued support! Had a brilliant year :)

* * *

**Chapter 20**

The smile remaining on the faces, John stretched out further and enjoyed the feeling in his muscles, "Shut up, Sally," he said, and for once, he didn't mean it,

"You know what that reminded me of? Asked Lestrade,

'What?" Sherlock barely managed to contain the wince that single word brought on. He was glad that the fire hid his movements rather well thanks to its flickering light. Lestrade started singing,

"I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus, underneath the mistletoe, last night," the laughter started up again, but Sherlock barely smiled. It hurt too much,

"John," he turned to the doctor, who immediately knew something was wrong from the tone of his partner's voice,

'Sherlock?" John copied by saying his partner's name,

"I think I'm about to black out again," It was a whisper but it was all too loud in the sudden silence,

"Lie down," said Lestrade, concerned,

"I don't think I actually have a choice," said Sherlock, focusing, for some reason on how amazing John's features were in the flickering firelight, and how he didn't like the fact that everything was fading from view,

"John…?" The doctor wrapped his arms around the detective as he slumped against his side,

"Sherlock?" he asked, but received no reply from Sherlock, his eyes closed and his breathing almost silent.

Everyone in the cave stared at John, "Is-" Sally cleared her throat, "Is he alright?" she asked, concern very obvious,

"No," John whispered, pulling Sherlock impossibly closer, "No, he isn't," Lestrade swallowed, feeling hollowness in the pit of his stomach,

"How much longer?" John stared into the fire, as outside, the wind howled with a new force and the waves crashed against the shoreline, their power seemingly as mighty as a thousand bombs.

* * *

John closed his eyes, focusing on his other senses, as he knew that everyone in the cave was waiting for his reply. He smelt the salty air that surrounded them, crisp, clean, it was nothing like London. He felt Sherlock's ragged breaths against his side, his warm breath against his neck, the heat of his skin, as his body fought the infection. He heard the other's breaths, and the crackling of the fire, that was burning brightly in front of them, before he opened his eyes again and looked at Lestrade,

"Considering that the infection started around sixteen hours ago…" John felt his eyes burning, 'We have," his voice broke and he looked down, staring at the white sand they sat upon, "We have eight hours to get Sherlock to the hospital or, well," John looked between Lestrade and Sally and knew he didn't need to elaborate his point.

"John, we were at the Cliffs of Dover," said Lestrade

"I know," John looked at Jim, more because he didn't know where else to look, who had stretched out and was leaning against the wall,

"And it is a six hour drive from London," Sally added, as sparks from the fire were thrown high up, bouncing off the ceiling and fading,

"I know," John, said again, quietly, his voice almost inaudible over the fire,

"That leaves us two hours," Lestrade finished and John couldn't raise his head to meet the man's eyes,

"There are no hospitals within a two hours drive," John said, his voice level, as his eyes traced Sherlock's jaw line, the skin flushed with the heat of the fever.

* * *

Silence fell on the cave.

* * *

Jim, desperate to kill Sherlock for almost a year and half now…couldn't believe what he was currently thinking. He didn't want Sherlock to die. He sat up slowly, ignored by the others and looked into the detective's sleeping face, almost angelic in this light, resting against John's chest and found he couldn't see himself killing him. _What is wrong with me?_ He blinked as he stared at the scene in front of him. Two desolate Scotland Yard Officers, a doctor and a detective. He needed to get away from Sherlock. The man was turning him human. Jim almost groaned out loud. That made about as much sense as this entire escapade. Of course the man who claimed to be above humanity would be turning the psychopath human. Jim laid back. He needed some rest. He was delusional.

* * *

Lestrade prodded the fire half-heartedly. He felt like everything was coming down to this moment. What they did now could finish off an entire drug cartel or finish off his friend - _brother_ Lestrade corrected himself and allowed a small smile to flit across his features. He turned his head to look at Sally, and was not at all surprised to see a tear trail down her cheek as she looked at Sherlock. She looked up at Lestrade, and swallowed, "I never even apologized," she whispered and John looked up, blinking the tears away,

"He knows it," Sally turned to face the doctor,

"You think so?" she asked, her voice breaking. John smiled at her,

"Yeah. He does. He's…he's Sherlock," There wasn't need for any other explanation and everyone there knew it. Lestrade sighed.

Did no one in London notice that all of them were missing? Surely John and Sherlock's landlady…he let his thoughts wander, 'That's it!" the DI suddenly exclaimed, grabbing everyone's attention,

"What's it?" asked John, not allowing any hope to enter into his voice,

'Earlier, you said, no hospitals within a two hour drive, right?"

"Yeah,' Lestrade grinned, the smile bright,

"What about within a helicopter's distance?" John gasped – how could he forget?

"Lestrade! You're a genius!" his voice echoed around the cave,

'Why?" Jim asked and Sally rolled her eyes, wiping the tears away,

"Because, Ambulance helicopters exist. They can fly out to, well, wherever we are!" she said as John's smile faded,

"But…how do we get help?"

"There has to be a town around here somewhere, right?" asked Lestrade,

'Yeah," Sally was almost jumping up and down on the spot, "We can split up," she said, "There definitely has to be a town around here,"

"And towns have phones," said Lestrade, "Plus if there isn't a helipad they can winch Sherlock up,"

"It's better than sitting here and waiting for…the inevitable," everyone was looking at John,

"I hate to be the pessimist, but how do we get out of here?" Lestrade grinned,

"We explored further down, there are stairs not far from here, proving that there are town close by because they wanted access to this beach." He looked down, 'and who can blame them? The sand is lovely." John felt hope blossom in his chest just as the so named pup ran back to them, her tail wagging, and a crab in her jaws.

"I'd love to," said John, addressing Hope, dragging himself to his tired feet, "But we have to get going Hope," The puppy dropped the crab, which gratefully scrambled away from them,

'Now?" asked Sally,

"Now," John replied, as Sherlock mumbled something, barely supporting his won weight,

'I'll come with you, when we split," she said, and walked towards John, taking half of Sherlock's weight,

'That leaves you and me," Jim smiled at Lestrade who rolled his eyes,

"Yippee for that," He got to his feet as well, grunting as he brushed the bruise on his arm as his waist. He was a walking bruise, now he came to thinking about it.

* * *

Slowly, the five people and Hope made their way down the tunnel, the sand getting softer as they walked on and the walls rougher against John's palm, as he leaned on it. His own leg was burning and he knew that it wasn't a good sign. In fact it was the first of infection. Dear God, this was just their luck, wasn't it? Whenever there's a solution on the horizon, something else had to happen. John felt a flare of anger. Damn it all. He wasn't going to give in. He refused to. He didn't care if it killed him anymore. John suddenly chuckled,

'What is it?" asked Lestrade as everyone looked at John,

"I've just realized something,"

"What?"

"Nine times out of ten, a hero is too cold, too hungry and too tired to care," Lestrade actually stopped walking,

"True that," he muttered and Sally nodded, the pause stretching, before they started their painful way up the stairs.

* * *

The wind lashed at them along with the rain as they emerged from the caves. The hundreds of cuts and nicks they had all obtained on their journey stung in the cold and John almost fell over as a searing pain ripped through his leg,

"John?" Lestrade hurried over, dragging Jim with him as he went and helped John to stand again.

They were on a platform, some hundred metres up a cliff, and there was nothing up here, except the long grass they were standing on. The platform stretched out in front of them for what seemed like forever, dipping as it turned downhill,

"We've got to move!" Lestrade yelled over the wind and Hope yelped as a twig slashed across her muzzle, a relative knife in these winds. Sally bent down and tucked the pup into her coat, where she clung on using her claws as the sergeant returned her support to Sherlock.

Moving as quickly as they could, Sherlock a dead weight in their arms, they walked across the platform. They were soaked in seconds and the cold numbed their skin, allowing them to ignore the pain. Every step they took, they were threatened with being forced backwards, but they kept going,

'You know what?" Sally panted, 'we shouldn't split up," Lestrade looked up at her, squinting through the wind,

'Why?"

"Because!" Sally winced as the ground dipped and they stumbled as one, "We've got a better chance together,"

"But, we can cover more ground by splitting up," said John. Thunder cracked suddenly, loud in their ears and they fell, distracted from the dips in the ground and ended up having to take the express route, so to speak, down the hill.

* * *

Sally recovered her senses first and checked the Hope was still in her coat before she got to her feet and turned to find all the men dazed and confused – and Sherlock conscious,

'Sherlock," she breathed, crawling over to him. The rain was pounding down harder and she sat back on her knees and took Sherlock's shoulders in her hands,

'Sherlock," she said and his grey, changeable, eyes focused on her,

"Sally?" he asked, the baritone voice almost a whisper,

"Sherlock, I hope you know something," she said,

'What?" Sherlock blinked. What was she on about? "Sally-" she put a finger to his lips and glanced at John, still lying on the soaking grass,

"Sherlock. I know you don't like me. And I know I'm been pretty damn rotten to you for a long time now. But, just this once, listen to me, Sherlock,' the man nodded, a serious light entering his eyes,

'John loves you, Sherlock," she said, "It didn't take a kiss to show that to me. It was obvious from the start of your crazy…relationship," she laughed softly as the doctor in question stirred and Sherlock turned to look at him, his body shaking in the cold,

"I know," Sherlock said, then the corners of his mouth turned up, "I won't hurt him, Sally," he said, even in his state, able to guess where this was going. The sergeant nodded, turning instead to Lestrade.

It hadn't taken long for her to say those words, but it felt like time stopped for Sherlock. His abused brain suddenly clicked – John had said something before they plunged off the cliffs, didn't he? Sherlock commanded his brain back into action _Love you…_ it echoed through his brain like someone had just smashed a gong. He was seeing clearly for the first time in hours. When they got out of this, because they were, Sherlock was going to make sure he showed John that he reciprocated those feelings whole-heartedly. Carefully, Sherlock turned and shook John awake,

"John," his voice was hoarse, but served to wake the doctor up immediately,

"Sherlock?" John sat and winced, 'you're awake…again," John furrowed his brow as Jim and Lestrade stumbled to their feet,

'C'mon!" the DI said, 'we need to move,"

"Why? Weren't we in the caves?" asked Sherlock,

"You need to get to a doctor," said John, dragging Sherlock up. Sally took her position on the consulting detective's other side, and he put his weight on both of them, knowing he couldn't take his own, as every step hurt.

"Which way then?" asked Lestrade looking at Sally and John,

'Right," Sherlock cut in and everyone looked at him,

'Are you sure?"

'Do you have any other evidence saying we should go another way?" Sherlock coughed at the end of that sentence, and John felt a stab of worry,

"No," Lestrade conceded,

'I think we should just listen to him," Sally looked at her boss,

'John?" Lestrade asked and the doctor sighed,

"Right it is."

* * *

The rain pelted down and the thunder rumbled, distant for now, but the sky was getting even darker, blocking out the rising sun, as the winds swept the clouds towards them. Walking as a group they ploughed onwards, through the slick mud patches and the wet grass. Their legs were aching and they were beyond freezing. Sherlock felt both cold and hot as the fever swept through his body, occasionally sending him out of it, before thunder or John's reassuring voice brought him back, the doctor's hand rubbing circles on his back, soothing, calming. John knew his leg was infected as well by now, but put it aside – Sherlock was more important.

After what seemed like an age, a forest appeared on the horizon and John felt a little better at the thought that they could get out of the driving rain.

"We're close to something!" Lestrade said, yelling to be heard over everything nature was throwing at them,

"Yeah," Jim panted, exhausted as everyone else, 'we are," no one contradicted him.

"How long have we been walking?" asked Sally, and John looked skywards,

"About an hour," and even as he said it, Sherlock stumbled, and they were carrying him again.

Even if there were a town on the horizon, John thought, they would be cutting it close. _Please God. I know you're there. Help us through this_. Another clap of thunder echoed above them and the rain started harder, allowing them to see no more that about a metre in front of them. _Please God, please__._

_

* * *

_

HAPPY NEW YEAR! So tired…. pulled an all-nighter in the city. Watched the fireworks from twelve stories up. Bloody Brilliant Melbourne!

Aza


	21. I love you

Love you all for the continued support!

* * *

**Chapter 21**

Normally, things didn't hurt nearly as much as every last part of John's body currently did. He was also sure that every one else was in a hell of a lot of pain as well – especially Sherlock. The forest was getting nearer and nearer, but the wind was just getting stronger and stronger.

"John," Sally had to yell just to be heard by John, walking a metre away from him,

'Yeah?" he called back,

"I don't think he's going to make it!" John looked at Sherlock, resting in between them. His breaths were shallow, and his cheeks were flushed, a fever that was creeping higher and higher taking control of his body. He wasn't even able to carry his own weight anymore,

"Sherlock," John shook him gently as their little party came to a halt, drenched, with thunder in their ears and lightning their only source of light, despite the approaching dawn.

The detective's eyes opened slightly and settled on John, "Yeah?" it was barely heard,

"Sherlock, how are you feeling?" Lestrade and Moriarty had moved closer so as to actually hear what was going on and Hope was sitting in the dead centre of their circle. The detective just shook his head, is ebony curls falling in his face. John bit his lip as he thought. They had no idea how far away the nearest village was, the wether was getting colder and colder and they were tiring by the minute,

"You were right, Greg," said John, looking at Lestrade,

"About what?" the DI looked a little happier at being told he was right for the first time,

"We'll move faster if we separate,"  
"Sherlock's in no state to go anywhere," Sally said, finding herself rather protective of him, which was strange, because thirty two hours ago, she had been bullying Sherlock along with the rest of the yard,

"My point exactly," John's breath caught on the last word and he elapsed into a coughing fit, bringing Sherlock to his senses. He took more of his weight and leant against Sally, watching John with worried eyes as Lestrade thumped his back. John sucked in a large breath, and knew now, for sure, his leg was infected,

'Are you alright?" Sherlock rasped, red-rimmed eyes locking onto John's

'Yeah, fine," John panted, "as I was saying," He looked at all of them, "Sherlock and I should stay behind, you three go on ahead," immediately, everyone started talking at once. John silenced them with a look, "No arguments," he said, "Every step Sherlock takes is making his heart beat faster. Whatever poison has accumulated on that wound is spreading, and walking is not helping him. I have to stay with him because I am chained to him, and you three are all fit enough to go on, through that forest and find a village,"

'How do we find our way back here?" asked Sally, watching as Sherlock moved his weight off her and onto John,

"You won't need to," said John, 'we're sitting in the middle of nowhere," He motioned with his arm in a round circle to enunciate his point. They were walking through another field; just grass and hills, stretching for kilometres in every direction except in front of them, "The chopper will spot us here, if we go into the forest we will not make it back out into the open fast enough,

'You'll be exposed to the elements," said Sally and John gave a hollow laugh,

"It doesn't actually get much more exposed than we currently are," he said, his tawny eyes the brightest things in the dark, gloomy skies that surrounded them. Lestrade stared into those eyes and found what Sherlock had seen. A spirit that would never leave you when you needed someone there for you. Someone who had seen it all and lived to tell the tale…Lestrade broke the eye contact and sighed _someone who will love you unconditionally_. His eyes fell on Sherlock, leaning on John, needing the man for support,

"Alright," Lestrade agreed suddenly, and Sally turned to him,

"What?"

'We'll go," he said, and John nodded,

'Sally, we'll be fine," he said, even though he knew that there was a very small chance of that,

"I don't want to leave," Sally said, the childish words leaving her mouth before she could think them through and John smiled, pulling her into a hug,

'You need to," Wiping away her tears, that mixed with the icy rain, she nodded and turned over to face Lestrade and Moriarty, 'Let's go," she said, and without any further ado, she walked off, though the mud, "Sally!" John called, and she turned, "Take Hope!" John looked down at the pup and nodded towards Sally, 'Go on, get going," he said and the pup ran off, towards Sally, who crouched down to greet her, as she waited for Lestrade and Moriarty,

'We'll be back," said Lestrade, taking John's attention away from Sally and walking forward, John smiled at him, and then, suddenly, Lestrade pulled both the doctor and the detective into a bear hug. The detective was surprised, but managed to raise his arm to pat Lestrade on the back,

'You heard him," said Sherlock, 'we'll be fine." Lestrade nodded, not trusting himself to say anything, before turning and walking with Moriarty, who spared Sherlock and John one last glance before following Lestrade and Sally, up ahead.

* * *

As they left, disappearing into the uncertain grounds ahead, Sherlock slumped to the ground; his feet going out from underneath him and John fell on top of him, knocking the breath out of the man. They lay like that, on top of each other; both with their eyes closed and just enjoyed the feeling that they didn't have to move anymore, when Sherlock was the first to break the silence that had fallen,

"You're leg is infected," he stated and John opened his eyes, staring at Sherlock dumbfounded,

"How the hell did you know that?" he asked and Sherlock chuckled,

"I know things John," the detective closed his eyes and leant back,

"Of course you do," said John, freeing one hand and laying it on the man's forehead,

"You're pretty sick yourself, Sherlock," John replied, attempting to keep Sherlock awake.

The grass tickled the nape of Sherlock's neck as he lay there, staring up at the sky and then John's face as he moved it into the view of the liquid metal eyes, 'Sherlock," he started but Sherlock raised a hand. "Listen, John," he said, and the doctor did so. There was nothing except falling rain,

'To what?" John whispered, those eyes, the eyes that had been in numerous – no wait –countless dreams, staring into the older man's. Sherlock raised his head so that his lips were a millimetre away from John's lips. He waited, John's breath warm on his face, then closed his eyes and covered the distance.

It had taken all of John's restraint to let Sherlock do the waiting and as John stayed still, allowing Sherlock to maintain that light pressure, he was sure no amount of torture could compare to having Sherlock right here. In front of him. There for the taking. And yet so unobtainable. John opened his eyes that he didn't even know he closed as Sherlock broke the kiss,

'Don't stop," he murmured, bringing his head to rest against the detective's neck, his lips brushing the man's jaw line,

'Did you hear that?" Sherlock asked, almost dreamily, both completely unaware of the fact that the rain had actually gotten stronger and was lashing at their clothes and their hair. The thunder was rumbling across the sky and lightning was reflected in Sherlock's eyes as he looked up,

"The thunder?" asked John,

'No." Sherlock smiled, "The sound of an entire life finding it's meaning," John blinked, completely stunned that those words left Sherlock's lips,

'Sherlock," he breathed, shocked, amazed, and Sherlock chuckled again, the vibrations running up John's body, setting it on fire, as the meaning of those words reached John's befuddled brain. _He's talking about us…_

"John," The doctor focused back on Sherlock, who winced as he moved slightly, "John," he repeated, "I…" Sherlock struggled for a breath and John felt his heart jump. Sitting up, he put a hand to Sherlock's pulse point on his neck. It was beginning to slow down, but jumped at the light touch of John's fingers,

"No talking Sherlock," it was more of a plea that an order. Sherlock smiled and coughed at the same time, the movement jarring his side and making him wince,

'John, I may not get to say this,"

'Don't say that!" John insisted, "Sherlock-"

'Let me finish," The detective raised an arm and ran in through John's hair, shaking the water out of it, even though it served no purpose other than to just put more water on him, and bring John closer, 'John, I love you," Sherlock breathed, 'I can't…" he stopped as the world spun out focus and distantly heard John calling his name. He had to finish, "I can't imagine life without you, but you must carry on," Sherlock couldn't even hear himself anymore, "Work with Lestrade, because he needs you," John's brown gaze filled his vision, scared, worried. Sherlock closed his eyes.

John leant over the detective and as his eyes closed felt like he was empty. "Sherlock!" he called, keeping one hand on his pulse point and lay so that they were forehead to forehead. The pulse was there, but barely, "Sherlock," John whispered, a sob wracking his body before he pushed away only to be drowned in a flood of emotions again. The storm had all but gone away, in their eyes. There was nothing but Sherlock now…and John. John, who lay there and prayed. John, who never stopped believing - John, who wasn't about to stop believing in miracles.

* * *

Hope you liked it. Yay! I'm fifteen! Finally…my friends don't have to sneak me into MA 15+ movies.

Hehe.

Aza


	22. Maybe

This is very probably the second last chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 22**

'We're close," Lestrade panted, leaning against the tree, cursing the English whether and the plain _stupidity _of their situation,

"We have to be," Sally agreed,

"I don't think I can go on for much longer," Jim added and both Lestrade and Sally nodded, agreeing with the man for the first time.

This storm, Lestrade thought as thunder rumbled up ahead, was a perfect representation of what they were going through. It was constant, and there seemed to be no end to it. It was uncontrollable, it was wild and it was dangerous, "C'mon," Lestrade heaved himself to his feet, groaning as pain shot up his muscles,

"Where to now, Boss? Left or right?" The three escapees considered. Long since had they entered the forest and trudged on warily, the brightening surroundings a reminder that they only had a limited amount of time, and they went wherever Hope led them, because it would seem she had a better idea than they did,

"Ask Hope," Lestrade said, watching as the puppy sniffed around and dug at the base of a tree,

"Hope!" Sally called and the pup looked up at the sound of her name, bright eyes shining, 'where are we going, girl?" Sally walked over to her, "Sherlock and John both need you," she whispered, "C'mon, girl," Hope turned her nose back the ground as Lestrade and Moriarty joined Sally,

"Does she have any idea what's she's doing?" asked Lestrade, watching with apprehension,

"No, probably not," Sally replied, "But we don't either,"

"Point taken," Lestrade muttered as Hope barked and one again, their bodies numbed by the cold, and their minds focused on just getting home, they followed her as she cut her way through the densely packed trees.

* * *

As aware of the time as Lestrade and the others, John worriedly kept a hand on Sherlock's neck, measuring his pulse and how fast his heart was actually beating,

'Sherlock," he mumbled, trying to rouse the man again after his crash, _probably doesn't even remember what he said, _thought John, feeling a stab of sadness. He looked skywards, blinking the rain away to ascertain the position of the sun, _already three hours gone…five more left._ John sighed and sat back on his haunches, his body trembling, both from the cold and the infection. Leaning back further, but still touching Sherlock, John straightened his leg and was glad that the leg was so numb he couldn't feel the pain of moving it.

Not particularly wanting to do this, he lifted his pant up and was not, even in the slightest, surprised to see that the wound was bleeding, blood trickling down his leg, the edges black. Sighing again, John leg the pant fall back down, looking back to Sherlock and thinking of the others, battling their way to go and get help, "They had better hurry," he said, his voice hoarse, easily lost in the wind that ripped the words from his mouth, terrifyingly powerful, buffeting the two men, dots on a huge expanse of green.

* * *

Try as they might, though, Lestrade, Sally and Jim were struggling to move more than a couple of metres a minute thanks to the thick growth of the trees that was better than any wall. In fact it would've been better if a solid brick wall faced them, at least then they couldn't try to get through the gaps and find themselves stuck – as Lestrade was. He had managed to get his head and shoulder's through, but it would seem that his chest just wasn't going anywhere, 'Damn it," he growled, to tired to even raise his voice,

"That's one way to describe it," Moriarty chuckled as he observed Lestrade from behind,

"Will you stop checking his arse out and help me?" Sally shoved the psychopath towards Lestrade, who had coloured at the thought that the mad man was actually…well; better not to think about it. Lestrade sighed as Sally squeezed through another gap so that she was able to see Lestrade's face,

"You're leaving him behind me?" Lestrade asked and was more than a little irritated when Sally just laughed,

'Oh calm down, he isn't going to do anything,"

'Yeah, why can't you trust me?" The other two fell silent,

'Why should we trust you?" Lestrade asked, twisting so that he could see Moriarty, leaning against the tree, straining the chain that ran between them,

"Because you don't actually have a choice," Lestrade turned back around as Sally huffed,

'Listen, we are wasting time, and he is going to need to push you from behind if we're going to get help for Sherlock. We are his only hope – or do you not care anymore?"

'No, no, I care," Lestrade sighed, 'Get on with then!" he exclaimed and Sally grinned. Lestrade wrinkled his nose as Moriarty walked up to him and put a hand on his back,

"This is just embarrassing," he muttered as Sally grabbed his shoulders,

'Ready?" she asked, calling over her boss's shoulder

'Yeah," and without any further ado, Moriarty pushed and Sally pulled.

Several swear words, a lot of pushing and two death threats later, all three were sitting in a heap on the ground, panting, while Hope sat in front of them, just looking at the pile of humans as if they were the most interesting thing in this place. "If you ever – _ever _touch me again, so help me God, I will cut of your head feed it to the shredders and then take great pleasure in locking you behind bars, piece by bloody piece!" Lestrade ranted and Moriarty laughed,

"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time" Moriarty paused, 'and you call me the psychopath?"

'Oh shut up," Lestrade grumbled as he got to his feet,

'Would a thankyou really hurt you that much?" asked Moriarty. Lestrade sent him a scorching look while helping his sergeant up,

"C'mon, I think he actually deserves one now," Sally put in and the DI rolled his eyes and spun so he was facing Moriarty fully,

'Thankyou," he said, even though his tone made it sound like Jim was pulling teeth,

"See, wasn't that hard." He grinned and Sally laughed,

"Let's get going shall we?"

'Yes," Still not entirely sure that he just said thankyou to a madman, Lestrade followed Sally and on they traipsed.

Doggedly, irritably, hungrily; onwards they went. The forest was like an army in itself. It set traps up from them to trip over. The lightning lit the ground up for a split second throwing shadows and making things appear when they didn't exist. No matter how rational the mind was, no matter how many times you told yourself that there was nothing there – the wind howled in the distance and the trees moved, taunting the three travellers, laughing at their pitiful attempts to escape the forest. Seconds of standing and staring, before walking again, turned into minutes and minutes turned into another two hours. "Greg," Sally panted, turning to face the men behind her. Her legs were trebling from the strain of standing and she knew she had at least ten scratches all over her body,

"I know," he swallowed and winced at the dryness of his throat,

'We've been walking for hours, and instead of getting brighter, it's getting darker," Lestrade motioned upwards, "The Canopy is getting thicker above us and we've only got about two more hours to get help!" Exasperated, Lestrade sank to the ground followed by Moriarty and Sally. Hope jogged back to them, and sat down, as defeated as they were,

"We've got to get out of here," Sally smacked her head into the tree that she was leaning against and stared up at the leaves _Useless. What is the point of trees? I don't know why those activists bother to campaign when there are plenty of forests – _Suddenly she gasped as an idea hit her. Lestrade looked at her while Jim raised an eyebrow,

'Idea?" he asked and Sally almost bounced to her feet,

'Trees!" she exclaimed and Lestrade groaned,

'I think she's been out here a bit too long," he muttered,

"No, I haven't," her eyes were so bright they might as well have been torches, "Listen, trees are our way out of here,"

'How so?" both men chorused and Sally pointed upwards,

'We can get a good view of the surrounds if we find a tall enough tree!" she grinned at them, and Lestrade returned it, pulling himself to his feet,

"Right then," He looked around them and spotted a huge oak, shooting up through the bottom layers and up into the canopy, 'There," he pointed towards it and everyone hurried over, shoving branches and bushes out of the way,

"Who's going up?" asked Moriarty, a little apprehensive,

"Well, we can't," Lestrade said and they all turned to look at Sally, who paled considerably,

'Uh, why me?"

'You came up with the idea,"

"Yeah but…" She swallowed,

"Are you not telling us something?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes,

"Well…" Sally glanced down at the puppy, "I'm afraid of heights," she said at last and Lestrade groaned,

'You survived the cliff fall and _now_ you tell us that you're afraid of heights?" he asked, his eyes closed, forehead resting on the trunk of the tree,

"Yes boss," she squeaked,

"That means we have to go up," said Moriarty. Lestrade opened his eyes and turned to face the man,

"You don't say," he bit back and Mariolatry raised his hands,

"You think I _want_ to be chained up?" he yelled,

"Maybe you do! Get more attention that way after all,"

'At least I'm not a complete failure," Moriarty sneered and Lestrade lost it. All the tension, all the frustration at not being able to get out of here, built up over the hours, exploded in a hail of fists. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Moriarty was knocked out cold before Sally could drag the panting Lestrade off the man,

"Greg!" she yelled, shaking him,

"WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF A FOREST AND SHERLOCK AND JOHN COULD - COULD **DIE**! AND ALL HE CAN DO IS JUST-" he kicked out one more time, at loss for words, connecting with Moriarty's shin bone,

'Greg!" Sally shook him again and he turned his burning gaze onto the sergeant, "Boss," she repeated, "Calm down," she was more than just a little shaken at seeing the man who was the epitome of calmness completely – and there was no other word for it – breakdown.

He was still breathing heavily, and was staring at Moriarty as if he couldn't actually remember what just happened, "Boss?" Sally asked, struggling to keep her voice even,

"I'm sorry," he finally said, turning so he was actually looking at Sally, who still looked a little shocked, "I don't…"  
"It's alright," she placed a hand on his shoulder, 'This place just gets to everyone," Lestrade just nodded, "But how are you going to get up the tree now?' she asked and Lestrade cursed silently,

"You're going to have to go up," he said and Sally actually took a step back,

'No," she said, firmly,

"Sally, you have to," Lestrade ran one tired, scratched and completely numb hand over his face, still unable to comprehend that he had almost beaten a man to death,

"I can't!" she exclaimed,

'Well who's going to do it then?" The question was soft, but Sally looked like she had been slapped,

'You're the one who had to bloody loose your temper,"

'Something I regret." Lestrade replied, looking at the lump on the ground below him,"But like you said, this place gets to everyone," Silence fell on their gathering as each thought their own thoughts.

* * *

The wind whistled through the branches, reaching them, even in those depths of the forest, and more than three kilometres away, Sherlock Holmes stirred to find that the good doctor had fallen asleep. He knew he was shivering despite the incredible warmth that seemed to be emanating from John and he also knew that it was not, in any way, normal for his body temperature to have risen to this point. "John," he nudged the man gently, hating himself for waking the man, but needing company and it felt like his stomach dropped out as he received no response from the relatively light sleeper, "John," he called again, and he sat up, rolling John onto his side so he could see John's face. _Slight flush, no doubt a fever, still breathing…__**alive**__…_Sherlock pulled John closer, practically sitting in his lap. Closing his eyes, his every sense aware, Sherlock focused on John. As the sun seemed to race across the sky Sherlock was aware, through the haze of pain, that there was very little chance that he would actually be able to get out of this scrape alive. He heard John say that he had eight hours…Sherlock rested his hand on the back of John's neck, the skin so warm…how he wished he had a chance to feel every part of John. To explore the only man – the only person – who made him human. "I'm a fool," he whispered, opening his eyes and gazing at the man in his arms, "I'm a fool to not have said something earlier," The thunder cracked above, "To actually tell you what you mean to me," the wind drove the rain into them like a hammer would with a nail and Sherlock chuckled, "This reminds me of some crap TV we would watch when we were both bored," he laughed again, the sound so strange in this desolate scene. He looked skywards at the dark grey that was hanging over them, "Maybe I'll live," Sherlock coughed on the last word, pain running up his side. He pulled John impossibly closer, holding onto the damp jumper like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, "and I'll get to tell you."

* * *

Trembling with fear and exhaustion, Sally pulled herself up onto the thirty-fourth branch, still some meters from the top of the tree, but found she didn't need to go any further. Not daring to look down to where Lestrade and Moriarty were, she opened her eyes, not realising she had closed them and was glad to see there was only a couple of other trees at this height, meaning her view was clear. Swallowing the fear, thinking of Sherlock and John, Sally cast her gaze out to the landscape that awaited her and was greeted by a truly amazing scene. It was like a carpet of lush green just spread out from around her and as the lightning flashed across the sky, it was brighter than she had ever seen it. She gazed out beyond the treetops to the right of her and felt her heart sink as nothing but forest spread for miles. Saying a small prayer, Sally turned slowly, and let her gaze spread out,

'What's the conditions?" Lestrade called, his voice seemingly far, far away,

"Not good," Sally called back, still not daring to look down. Abruptly, a wind arose from nowhere and swept across the tops of the trees, along with a clap of thunder so loud, it woke Moriarty on the ground. The sergeant screamed as the wind buffeted her and suddenly, she was falling. Lestrade, Moriarty and Sally yelled at the same time. By a pure stroke of luck, Sally managed to grab another branch after a fall of about ten metres, still above the canopy. To the sound of her heart thundering in her ears and the yells of her comrades below, Sally opened her eyes and screamed again – this time in excitement, "OH MY GOD!" she yelled,

"We're coming, Sally!" Lestrade yelled, dragging Moriarty to his feet.

Vertigo forgotten, Sally looked down to see Lestrade and Moriarty using the chain to pull themselves up by applying simple laws of physics, "It's there!" she yelled and Lestrade exchanged a look with Moriarty, who, despite having bruises all over him, didn't say a word about being beaten up by the inspector,

"What's she on about?" Moriarty grunted,

"Dunno," Lestrade really couldn't manage more than singular syllable words,

'Boss! Moriarty! It's there! There's a town!" The two of them almost slipped – and then, just like that, the two of them found the energy to hurry.

Within minutes, they had the sodden, terrified yet incredibly happy Sergeant Sally Donovan on a sturdy branch and all three of them were staring out in the direction Sally hadn't looked and couldn't have looked at while she was standing on the branch. Behind her former position, there were lights barely a kilometre from where they were, and those lights were bright, even in the current storm, "Let's go," said Lestrade, holding onto both of them, barely believing that this was almost over. Lowering Sally down first and then joining her, the two men, woman and puppy pushed through all the pain barriers and fought their way through the forest. Carving their own path through the forest, they ploughed on.

Lestrade only noticed that the trees had begun to thin after his clothes had stopped getting caught on everything, "We're close," he said, bowing his head and watching as water ran off his nose,

"I know," said Sally, who was leaning on Lestrade more than she was walking. Moriarty pulled up behind the two of them, tired, bruised, but for the first time in a long time, happy. And it surprised him. He was not one to feel happiness. In fact, he had learned not to feel a long time ago, because when you feel, you get hurt. As they traipsed across open ground, dragging their feet and their eyes fixed on little Hope up ahead and the lights that awaited them, Jim almost laughed. It had taken being kidnapped, almost killed, pummelled by several people, being chained up and surviving a trek through a forest in a storm to make him realise just what he had been doing all these years. All the pain he had caused. The numerous, mostly innocent lives he had taken, and, oh god, he felt like a cage was being lifted from his heart and soul, and he was _sorry_ for it all. He wanted to say sorry and he wanted to show that he was sorry. He looked at the DI walking in front of him and the sergeant that walked beside him. _Maybe one day they'll forgive me._ Jim allowed another smile as they turned onto the main street, brightly lit.

Sally actually hummed in satisfaction at the feeling of solid cement beneath her and the fact that there was no chance she was going to trip over a root. Lestrade led them to the first building he saw, a small, brick house, with smoke pouring out of its chimney and Hope followed reaching the front door first. As Lestrade raised his hand to knock on the door the first thought that ran through his mind was _bed_ and as the door opened and as a lady stared out of them, he figured he was too old for this. At his silence, Sally took over, "Excuse us," she said, her voice soft, her gaze slightly unfocused, "But any chance of some dry clothes a hot meal and the police?" The lady looked at her for a second more before dragging them in and starting her chatter,

"My god!" she exclaimed, ushering all of them to the living room, the lights needed despite it being daytime. The three of them collapsed onto the couch and Hope flopped down in front of the fire,

"Thankyou," Lestrade managed a weak smile, as the lady bustled out of the room and then back in with huge, fluffy towels.

Practically yanking them forward, one by one, she wrapped them up and all three found their stress easing as she fretted in a motherly way, "_What_ in heaven's name were you doing out there in that whether?" she asked, standing with her hands on her hips,

"Well-"  
"No" she cut Lestrade off and instead shoved a thermometer into his mouth, and Sally's and Jim's. "Silence," she said, "the Police are on their way over," Lestrade just blinked. Everything was moving so ridiculously fast, 'Good," he managed over the thermometer.

The three of them watched in amusement as the little old lady flitted around her kitchen, pulling things out of cupboards and throwing ingredients into a saucepan. As she worked there was a knock at the door. Sally made to get up but sat back down silently as their host shot them a look.

"Ah, officer, come in," They watched as he stepped in and looked at them. He was in his mind-thirties and his eyes were the same colour as the sky above them, as he surveyed the new comers. He passed over Jim and Sally and came to rest upon Lestrade. His stern expression immediately turned to fear, and Lestrade got to his feet,

"Senior Sergeant," he started and the man snapped to attention,

"Sir." Lestrade rolled his eyes,

"Forget that, come here," his voice broke and the officer walked forward, 'you need to get Scotland Yard on the phone. I need to get in touch with one of my officers there." He nodded and was about to spin around when Lestrade stopped him, "But before you do that," he said, pulling the towel tighter around himself, 'You need to get a helicopter out to…" he looked at their host, staring at the detective with a new respect,

"Guston," she said and Lestrade placed that on his mental map and realised that they were lucky. The coast guard was situated nearby. They might be able to get that chopper out,

'Why?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow, 'Sir." He added hurriedly, and Sally hid her smile,

"Because there are two men out there who need rescuing,"

"If nothing else," Jim added and Lestrade looked at him,

"Yeah," he said, staring out the window, "If nothing else," he repeated as a bowl of soup, gloriously warm, was placed into his hands. The officer ran out of the house to get to the police station and do as he was ordered; after all, that was the detective Inspector in there and he was up for promotion after the dress stunt, half of England knew that.

In barely five minutes, they had requisitioned the coastguard chopper, the news brought to them by the panting junior officer. Warmed slightly by this, the companions sat on the sofa, staring at the fire, "I feel guilty being so warm," said Sally, snuggling into the plush cushions of the sofa, her clothes drying quickly,

"I know," her boss replied, glad his voice had come back to normal,

"They'll be alright," Sally said softly, shivering slightly as a breeze blew in through a crack in the wall, sending the fire flickering and spark up the chimney and into the frigid air. Silence greeted her statement. There was only one-hour left to get that helicopter out to Sherlock and John, and it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Lestrade had been able to give vague directions to the pilots and they sort of knew what he was talking about, but it was going to be a long shot. But so had them surviving the plunge of the cliff and Sally seeing the town after she slipped. There was hope. You just had to believe.

* * *

Cold. Pain. Heat…_Sherlock!_ John sat up suddenly, the image of him, zipping a black body bag up and forever sealing Sherlock's gorgeous face away burnt onto his eyelids. In sitting up he startled the detective awake, wrenching his jumped from his grasp, 'Shit," the doctor mumbled, looking up, trying to get his brain to work, "Sherlock?' he looked back to the detective, who was as awake as anyone as sick as he was could be,

"John?" Sherlock imitated him, forcing his eyelids to stay open, to keep looking into those eyes. John looked lost for words. He just stared into Sherlock's face, taking everything in and felt a smile spread across his face as Sherlock began to smile,

'What's so funny?" asked John,

'You are," he replied, suddenly wrapping his arms around the taut body and puling him down, to lie on his chest, both facing the sky. For a minute there was nothing but their breaths and the elements, "Why am I funny?" John asked his voice warming Sherlock from the heart,

"Because you are," The smile was apparent in his voice,

"That's not logical," John chuckled at the role reversal and Sherlock hugged him tighter, letting silence fall again.

"Please don't ever leave me," The whisper was so desperate and so quiet, John would've missed it if his ear weren't directly underneath Sherlock's mouth. Spinning, gently, John raised himself up so that he was looking into Sherlock's eyes, his entire body laying flat on top of the detective,

'Never," his lips brushed the other mans and he felt the heart rate jump. John slid his hand down so that it was on top of Sherlock's heart "I won't…if you won't," A fresh barrage of rain hit them, colder than the previous and it dripped off John and onto Sherlock, who smiled at the sight of the drenched John above him, "Deal," he said, maintaining that distance between the two of them, and that was when they heard the chopper, like the dinner bell for a starving man and the gift of sight for a blind man.

* * *

Well?

That was super long, and it took a lot of concentration but there it is ;) I really hope I didn't drag I out too long

Aza

xoxo


	23. Yes, Sherlock, I will

This is the last chapter :( Enjoy! By the way, you really should listen to _Bon Jovi - Bed of Roses_ which is where i got my story name from. it may make more sense that way... :D

* * *

Chapter 23

Trying not to be irritated at the chopper for interrupting, as it was the only thing that had the slightest chance of saving their lives, John turned so that he was looking up at the sky,

"Damn," Sherlock mumbled and John laughed,

"My sentiments exactly,' he replied, blinking rain out of his eyes to take a good look at the skies up above. He frowned as the chopper noise got closer and yet they could see absolutely nothing. He turned to Sherlock, 'Erm…you need to stay right _here_. Did you here me?" Sherlock stared at John,

"Nope," he finally said as John crawled to his feet, and turned to face Sherlock with a glare,

"Stay." He repeated and was almost thrown off balance as Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged himself up,

"I'm not Hope," he panted, staring into John's eyes as the doctor stared right back at him,

'Sometimes you behave worse than her," John finally conceded. They stayed like that for a second longer, as the helicopter seemed to get closer,

"It's coming," John said, tilting his head to look up into the face that loomed above him. Sherlock nodded and, resting most of his weight on John, he took a tentative step.

Immediately, Sherlock gasped and fell to the ground, pain racing up his body. John fell to his knees next to the gasping detective, grabbing him by both of his shoulders as he panted. The detective moaned as fire seemed to spread from the wound, and had he not been as logical as he was, he would say that someone was standing above him, gun in hand, firing repeatedly into his side. Forcing his eyes open, Sherlock grabbed John's jumper and stared, frightened, into the doctor's eyes, 'Sherlock," John could feel the tears building, "Sherlock," he said again, as the detective struggled to focus on the man above him. The chopper was closer than ever,

'Don't go," Sherlock pleaded as John turned to look up, where their salvation awaited, but hearing the words, a whispered plea from his mouth, John's head snapped back to look at him,

'No," he said, "I'm not going anywhere," he didn't care. He didn't care if the helicopter would save his life. Sherlock was losing a battle he had fought bravely for so long now, "John,' Sherlock's entire body trembled – what had he done to set it off like this…_ah…the movement…_John didn't hide his tears, mixing with the rain that fell, "The wound, John," Sherlock finally managed,

"No!" John insisted, pressing his hand into the side, gently, enough for Sherlock to feel it, and his other hand raised Sherlock's head off the ground, caressing it from the back, "NO, Sherlock," he said again, his own shoulders shaking with sobs. Sherlock laughed softly, and raised a hand, running his thumb across John's cheekbones. Closing his eyes, John leaned into Sherlock's touch, so, so gentle, wiping away his tears,

"John," Sherlock breathed, his only reply John opening his eyes, "It hurts," Sherlock drew in a ragged breath as John reached up and took Sherlock's hand is his own,

"I know," he whispered, brining that hand to his chest, rubbing circles into it.

The Helicopter was loud now, as loud at the thunder above them. Lightning flashed across the skies, as Sherlock's every breath seemed to take an age, a huge amount of effort,

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, as his grip on John's hand suddenly loosened, following a shuddering breath. John immediately put his hand to the detective's pulse point and it was like the blades that were whirring above, on the helicopter, were cutting into him, chopping his heart to pieces, 'SHERLOCK!" John yelled again, his eyes studying Sherlock's face, taking every last detail in, 'Sherlock," the word was a cry, as his vision clouded over, 'NO!" he yelled, as the searchlight from the helicopter swept over them, but John ignored it.

Swallowing, and pushing his emotions to the side, refusing to back down, John placed his hands over Sherlock's heart and started compressions. _You saved my life, Sherlock. I need you_ John pumped desperately as the searchlight focused on them, "Come on," John said, gritting his teeth as he completed his compressions.

_I want to lay you down in a bed of roses_

Taking a deep breath, John leant over, and blew into Sherlock, watching his chest. This was an almost perfect reversal of what Sherlock had done two and a half days ago, and it make the doctor's heart ache every time he thought about it. John turned away and felt the breath rush out of Sherlock. Again, John leant down, running a hand through Sherlock's hair and blew again, watching the chest rise and fall.

_For tonight, I sleep on a bed of nails_

A medic was easing himself down from the helicopter, buffeted by the winds, knowing that at any second he could be struck by lightning, but also knowing he needed to get down as quickly as possible. His heart went out to the man who was leaning over, starting compressions again. There was still no response from the prone figure on the ground.

_I want to be, just close as, the Holy Ghost is_

John's entire body was aching as he continued with the compressions, 'NO!" he yelled, as Sherlock continued to lie limp. "DAMN YOU SHERLOCK!" he yelled, thumping his fist into the man's chest, one last time, crying, shaking, terrified that he had lost the man he loved.

_And lay you down,_

He rested his forehead against Sherlock's, pressing his entire body against him, "You can't go," he said, and suddenly, as the paramedic reached the ground, and unhooked himself from the pulley, the lightest breath ghosted across John's face.

_On a bed of roses_

His eyes snapped open as Sherlock drew in another ragged breath, coughing and opening his eyes, his throat raw. At this proximity, John could see every part of his eye. The green and blue particles that glinted there, and the grey that looked out at him, with fondness and love, lighting as they recognised the weight on them.

John felt a smile spreading on his face as the paramedic finally reached them,

"Didn't think I'd leave so easily?" Sherlock paused, "I wouldn't, you know, not if you're here," he mumbled, closing his eyes again and John laughed like a madman, relief spreading through him, as he rolled off Sherlock, to allow the man some space,

"Dr. Watson?" John turned to see the paramedic, and that was when he realised that they weren't alone anymore,

"Yes," he croaked and the man smiled, his teeth shining through the visor of his helmet,

"That would be Mr. Holmes?" John nodded, dumbly as he realised that they were going home. Finally. The paramedic walked over, setting down his kit bag. John turned back to look at Sherlock, whose eyes were, mercifully open. Not hesitating, John took his hand and held it, still grinning,

'We're going to be alright," he whispered, kissing the back of Sherlock's hand and the detective nodded woozily.

* * *

Not too far away, dry and warm, Lestrade stood at the window, staring out into the sheets of rain, "They're coming home, right?" he asked, his breath fogging up the icy window, not really seeing what was on the other side of it,

"They will," Sally said, looking up from the couch at the man who stood there, "They have to," she added, more to herself than anyone else as Jim pulled his blanket tighter around himself. Thankfully, the officer who pulled the coastguard out to go and get Sherlock and John had cut the chains that held Lestrade and him together. Finally, they were free, but Jim knew that there were thicker and heavier chains to come. _Oh well…_ he sighed and sunk lower into the chair.

"Maybe they've been found by now?" Lestrade glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes to the deadline,

"Yeah," Sally nodded, not really believing what she was saying. Lestrade turned and looked out the window again, "Sherlock, you are in so much trouble if you don't make it out of this alive," he whispered, staring at the rain as it fell harder.

* * *

"We don't have much time!" the Paramedic yelled over the roar of the wind, thunder and the helicopter,

"I know!" John replied, as both he and the medic hoisted Sherlock onto the stretcher. Slowly, John struggling to remain upright, they made their way over to the chopper, 'Take him up first!" John said, looking down as Sherlock coughed, the oxygen mask fogging up,

"John," the detective attempted to tell him something but John just shook his head, placing a strong arm on his shoulder,

'We're going to be fine," he saw a flicker of something in Sherlock's eyes but said nothing more as the stretcher was attached to the cable and the medic. John stepped back, relief spreading through him as Sherlock was winched up, metre by metre, painfully slowly, in his eyes, as the wind roared, coupling with the helicopter's noise. John kept his gaze fixed on the florescent yellow underside of the stretcher that was the brightest thing in the dark skies above them. Sherlock almost groaned out loud as a fresh wave of pain washed over him as he was lowered into the warm cabin, jostled all the way. He opened his eyes as they prepared to send the medic back down when suddenly; the sky and everything underneath it flashed white.

There was stillness for a moment and Sherlock's battered brain took a second to figure it out. _Lightning…_as suddenly as the white came, it disappeared, and the chopper was thrown backwards, the medic and the winch operator hanging on by as thread as the metal bird titled dangerously and whined with the effort of staying airborne. Sherlock winced as the sound of the blades cut into his ears, adding to his headache. He groaned, turning on his side, and sitting up gingerly. There was smoke in the cockpit, and the medics were leaning out the door, staring down at the ground, yelling and pointing. Forcing, ordering, rather, his mind to work, Sherlock listened,

"He's hit!" the medic motioned towards the ground, _who's hit?_ Sherlock glanced around as the captain spoke up, staring out through the door, at the grey sky, wishing he was able to see what was going on,

'So are we! We need to get to port _now _or risk losing this patient, us and the doctor down there!" There was silence and fear coursed through Sherlock, competing with the agony, as realisation hit,

"What's going on?" he rasped as the medic turned to face him. Sherlock's eyes widened in protest as he was pressed back against the stretcher,

"Relax," the scene in front of him was fading,

'Where's John?" Sherlock asked, trying to fight the restraining hands as the winch operator continued staring out of the helicopter, and down to the ground, his face shadowed with worry,

"Close that door!" the pilot hollered and Sherlock froze, _No…John's hurt too…he needs help, _but Sherlock didn't even have the energy to get one word out, let alone compete with the engine that was squealing around them. The pilot continued his explanation, "Our fuel tank is hit! We need to get going. NOW!"

"You can't leave him there," Sherlock said, staring into the medic's eyes, as everyone else ignored him, and the helicopter whined and groaned,

'Mr. Holmes, please, relax," the medic pushed him back down. Everything blacked out and Sherlock closed his eyes, wiling his sight to come back, just as he heard a sigh, and then the noise of the blades was reduced by half as the door clicked shut, sealing out the elements and John, a hundred metres below him.

* * *

The world came back to the doctor just as the helicopter was pulling away. He was lying sprawled on the ground, his head aching, his throat raw and smoke filling the sky, as the forest, not far away, burned, despite the rain. The flames sent flickering light everywhere and John dragged himself into a sitting position – only to fall onto his back again, groaning and coughing. Steadying his breathing, John raised his head slightly, to appraise his condition and winced as he saw the cut running down from his shoulder to his elbow, the blood soaking through the off-white stained jumper. He glanced back up at the helicopter as it pulled away, smoke pouring from its right flank, "Makes sense," John thought aloud, "Save Sherlock and themselves, send another chopper back for me…" John coughed as some of the smoke from the blazing fire reached him. It really was amazing what lightning could do in less time than a human could blink. John laid his head back down, unable to move. _Sherlock's safe._ He smiled dazedly, his vision swimming in front of him, the smoke painting grey patterns on a darkening sky. He stared up, enjoying the cool rain after that blast of heat and electricity, as it pounded down harder on him.

Even though his mind was blank, he did register that it was getting darker as he lay there, _they're not going to be able to come back,_ he thought _not before I bleed out – the storm is getting worse._ As much as he was willing to give his life up for another, he wasn't going down without a fight. Sitting up, his head throbbing and his entire body screaming its protest to his movements, John leant over to his good leg as thunder rumbled and another flash blinded him. Thankfully, it didn't hit anything. Swallowing the lump of fear in his throat, waiting for his vision to return, John tore a strip of his already tattered pants off. Carefully, He raised his right arm – the injured one – and threaded the strip around it. Deftly, years of practise behind him, John tied the strip tight, yelling as the pain it brought washed over him, leaving him breathless. Screwing his eyes shut John tied the second knot, right at the top of his arm, effectively lessening the blood that was able to reach his arm.

Pushing thoughts of dying, cold, alone and tired out in the middle of nowhere, John struggled to his feet, _I will make it_ John shuddered as the wind cut at him, nothing stopping it on the open ground that spread around him, _I have to make it_. He stared at the forest, the burning trees, and the fire that was slowly fading away as the rain thundered down. The others had to have made it through there and they must have found help going through the forest…but everything would be ruined now, thanks to the lightning strike. There would be no entry from this side. John looked right first, seeing the forest stretch out in front of him. Then he looked left. It seemed to curve around a little as it continued. Having nothing else to go on, John set out for the forest, intent of following the line of the outer trees to his left. There was a village around her somewhere. There had to be. John took a step. Winced. Took another step. Drew in a sharp breath. Swallowed and repeated the process. One more time. Again. He was getting back to Sherlock. One way or another.

* * *

Lestrade couldn't draw himself away from the window. He stared out as the skies darkened. There was only five minutes left for Sherlock, and John would never forgive himself if anything happened to the consulting detective,

"Come away from there dear," Their most gracious host, who insisted that she wanted none of this Mrs. Jameson stuff and would rather Penelope, walked into the living area, 'You need your rest. Standing around isn't helping anyone, least of all you," She stood with her hands on her hips, watching Lestrade as if daring him to contradict her,

"Yeah," he mumbled, turning around, feeling a little like his seven-year old self being told to put that turtle down and come here at once. He walked back and sunk into the other end of the three-seater couch that Sally was on. Hope sidled up to him and raised herself on her back legs, tail wagging, eyes fixed on Lestrade. He smiled at her before reaching down and lifting her up, allowing her to curl up on his lap.

"Here, Greg," the DI's mouth watered as the smell of hot chocolate wafted up from the mug Penelope held out for him. He took it gladly as she moved over to Sally and then Jim. All three of them sipped gratefully, the liquid warming them up, time passing as they sat and thought their own thoughts. Lestrade could feel his eyes closing, as the quiet breathing of those around him and the muffled sound of the storm outside reached his ears, a comforting sound, considering the delicious warmth of the room that surrounded them. Just as Lestrade was drifting off, a loud bang followed by deep rumbling woke him up fully. He glanced around in a panic, his mind fuzzy with fatigue and saw that the other two were already asleep. _Did I imagine that?_ His heart was returning back to normal speed when he glanced down into his lap to find the puppy with her ears back, standing, head flicking from side to side and tail still,

'Hope?" he whispered and the pup looked at him. He rested a hand on her back and stroked softly down. As he did so, the pup relaxed and sat down, but continued to flick one ear back and forth.

"You heard that too, didn't you?" Lestrade's voice was gentle, and the pup just stared at him, 'Ah, if only you could talk," he ruffled her fur, and gently put her on the ground.

Avoiding the hot chocolate mugs on the floor, Lestrade walked over to the window. The sky was even darker than normal, and despite being late morning, the streets were empty, devoid of any life, thanks to this storm.

His examination of the street complete, Lestrade raised his eyes to the sky – and caught sight of the trail of smoke. Fear shot through him coupled with worry, tying his stomach in knots. The helicopter had to have made it by now, right? Surely that fire didn't mean anything. Just another lightning strike, right? Imitating what he had seen Sherlock do on numerous occasions, he closed his eyes and leant his head against the glass, the cold serving to get his mind working. Hope whined by his leg and he opened his eyes, looking down at her. She whined again and he nodded, "I know," the window misted up and he wiped it off, "I'm going, Hope," he said, and, finding energy from the restorative powers of Penelope's soup and several hot beverages, Lestrade jogged lightly across the floorboards and to the bathroom. Switching the light on, Lestrade walked to the cupboard and pulled the waterproof first aid kit out. He opened it and checked that it had enough bandages, and painkillers. Nodding absentmindedly, Hope at his heels, he ran into the kitchen and found the hot water, still at boiling temperature. As quietly as he could, he rooted around in the cupboards, and found what he was looking for – a thermo flask.

Quickly, Lestrade made hot chocolate, finding everything on the bench top and poured it into the flask. To keep even more warmth in, Lestrade grabbed the bag it came in, and hurried back to the first aid kit. He had seen a carry bag near the door and he put these things into it adding the police jacket and scarf that was hanging off the hat stand, and yanked the industrial strength boots that were sitting underneath the hatstand on. Sure that this bag was waterproof; Lestrade zipped it up and then pulled the cover over it.

Still not entirely sure that this was the smartest thing he had ever done, Lestrade opened the closet and spotted the heavy duty trench coat, and flashlight, stocked with fresh batteries, that he had seen when Penelope opened it to find a dry jacket from him. Pulling it on and tying the front up, Lestrade lifted the bag over his shoulder, bending down to scratch Hope behind the ears, 'Something is wrong Hope," said Lestrade, "and I'll be back, so don't worry," he smiled, then frowned, "I don't know why I feel like I have to go out there. Maybe they're already rescued and I'll be wandering around there like an idiot. But I have to know." Hope pawned her nose and sneezed, "Bless you," the DI added, before walking to the door, laughing, already missing the warmth of the living room. He took in the sleeping forms of Sally and Jim before opening the door, shoving Hope back inside as she tried to follow him out, and shutting the door quietly behind him.

Turning the collar up to protect him from the wind, Lestrade stepped out from under the cover of the awning and into the storm.

* * *

John slumped against the tree. His legs were trembling and visibility was reduced to a metre in front of him, capturing him in a bubble of cold and pain. "Oh God," John raised a hand to his forehead. He was burning up. He had been walking for almost an hour. The storm had worsened, the trees provided little shelter, and he was tired. Oh so, so, tired. All he wanted to do was lay there, his back against the tree and wait for the next day, when the whether was clear enough for a search party to find his dead body. John chuckled at the thought. He'd make an interesting body…_yeah, I'm losing it._ He chuckled again, before crying out as pain ran through his shoulder, brought on by a sudden gust of wind.

Reaching up and grabbing onto the branch, John pulled himself up, wiping the water out of his eyes. _Take a step_ he ordered himself and so he did. As John was about to take another step he heard the strangest sound – a human voice yelling his name. _I'm also hearing things, now. Great, I'm delirious. _John started walking again, his head bowed, half wanting to hear that voice again. Time past. It could've been five minutes, it could've been five hours. He raised his head, and caught sight of a light in the trees. He froze, his heart pounding as the light moved in a sweeping arc, passing over him once, coming from several metres inside the forest. John tried to focus on the person behind the light but could see nothing but a silhouette, "JOHN!" the person called and the army medic felt his legs go out from underneath him, as the person ran forward.

John felt the hot tears run down his face before he knew he was crying, shoulders shaking, body trembling as Lestrade ran forward, tripping over roots and breaking branches to get to broken man, lying against a tree on the ground, "John, it's me, John," Lestrade dropped the flashlight next to them as he fell to his knees next to the ex-army medic. Acting purely on an instinct, the need for some human contact, John threw his arms around Lestrade. The DI blinked twice before he returned the embrace, sitting on the ground as John clung to him as if he were a life buoy in the middle of the ocean.

Lestrade felt tears of his own as he sat there, not saying anything, the rain coming down harder than ever. He had no idea what he had been looking for. He didn't even know why he left the house. He didn't know why he had come here, or what brought him here. All he knew is that he defied the million to one odds of actually finding John somewhere he wasn't even familiar with.

Finally, John pulled his head up to look at Lestrade, "Thankyou,' he mumbled, staring up at Lestrade and taking in the man's condition. His face was flushed from the cold and he had several cuts on his cheek and one on his neck, "You're bleeding," said John, pulling out of the embrace and the warmth it brought, but Lestrade stopped him by grabbing his wrist, "So are you, mate," he said and John glanced at his shoulder. Lestrade climbed to his feet, 'we need to go further into the forest, that needs bandaging," John nodded dumbly and allowed Lestrade to pull him to his feet. The DI put one arm around his waist and John put his arm around the DI's shoulder, even now, cursing his shortness, 'You're not that short," Lestrade said, grinning and John laughed as they limped their way through the lighter trees and away from the pounding rain. The laughter was light, was free and wonderful, echoing around the dark clearing they walked into,

"You're spending way too much time around Sherlock,"

'Very probably," They both laughed again. Slowly, as the place got darker and Lestrade's flashlight was the only source of light, the rain turned to a drizzle with the cover of the canopy above them,

"Do you even know where you are going?"

"Yes. I saw this place ten minutes before I saw you," Lestrade turned to look at John whose head hung low. The arm was still bleeding, and Lestrade didn't like the look of it,

"How's the leg?"  
"Crap," John mumbled, his eyes closing. Lestrade chuckled,

'Is that medical language, doctor?" he asked, lowering John down to the moist ground. John opened his eyes as Lestrade put the bag down and unzipped it,

"Here," Lestrade handed him the flask and John took it, "These too," Lestrade passed two painkillers over and John could've kissed the man. He chuckled and Lestrade shot him a look _the i__mperative word being could've._ John looked down at the flask as he popped the pills into his mouth. The outside was warm, and he hugged it to his chest as he opened it and Lestrade lifted his pant leg up,

"Ouch," he said, staring at the jagged hole that was causing most of John's problems,

'Yeah," John said, sighing as the liquid warmed every last part of him up, "How did you find me?" John asked after swallowing as Lestrade unwrapped a white bandage,

"I don't know," Lestrade looked up to meet John's gaze, his eyes warm, " I just did," he said, 'I saw smoke and I had to get out here," he cleaned the wound as best he could with some Dettol and gauze. John winced as he did, "Sorry," he said, lifting the leg and placing a clean bandage on the wound, 'I thought if you'd both been rescued I would look like a fool,"

"Believe me, you're not a fool," John winced as Lestrade drew the bandage tighter around his leg,

'Where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, now he had gotten over the shock of finding John,

"In the chopper. That's how I got hurt," He motioned to his shoulder,

'What? The Chopper struck you?" Lestrade asked, his brow furrowed and John shook his head,

"Sorry, brain's dead. Lightning strike," Lestrade froze,

"Lightning hit you?" he asked his voice quiet, and John looked at him,

"I really don't know," he said, "All I know is I woke up, Sherlock was in the helicopter, and it was smoking. They made the right decision, leaving with him," Lestrade nodded, relief washing over him. Both of them were okay. He pulled what remained of the pant leg down and moved so that he was sitting next to John, "You need to take the jumper off," he said and John groaned, laughing at the same time, "Damn," he muttered and Lestrade smiled,

'C'mon," he said and John downed the rest of the hot chocolate. Placing the flask on the ground, He raised for his arms and bit his lip to keep silent as the muscle stretched. Lestrade pulled the jumper off and John dropped his arms gratefully. "Buttons off," Lestrade instructed, indicating the shirt underneath and John complied, as Lestrade blushed slightly at how this would probably look.

John carefully dragged the shirt down his right side so that the wound, raw and red, was exposed. Carefully and in silence, Lestrade began to clean the wound, John just sitting with his eyes closed, the rain falling gently through the leaves, the smells of the forest around him no longer scary, but rather comforting. Lestrade's touch was incredibly gentle and when he was done John almost missed the contact before he remembered who was doing it. He really missed Sherlock right now.

"Let's go," said Lestrade pulling John to his feet, "The quicker we get you to a hospital, the quicker you'll be fine,"

"Geeat," John said, very sleepy as Lestrade packed up, climbed to his feet and pulled John to his feet, assuming their previous position. He laughed at the doctor's lack of pronunciation. John raised his head to look at Lestrade, looking slightly drunk, ' I meant, great," he said, blinking in confusion and Lestrade shook his head, flicking the light on and leading John onwards,

"If this is what hot chocolate does to you, stay off the hard liquor," he advised, grinning. John stumbled as pain shot up his leg and seemed to meet with his burning arm. He made a small sound of pain and Lestrade stopped, 'Hey, you alright?" he asked,

"Fine," John said, "C'mon," he took a step and his knee buckled,

"No your not fine," John closed his eyes in pain and suddenly the world tilted ninety degrees. His eyes shot open and he found that Lestrade was carrying him. What? Did he have some sort of sign over him that said just because he was slightly smaller than the average man he needed to be carried?

'I can walk!" John protested, indignant,

"No, you can't," Lestrade walked on, easily carrying John's weight and manoeuvring them through the trees. The time passed silently, and despite his protests, John settled with his arms around Lestrade's neck to make it easier for the DI. He knew that when they walked into town they would raise questions and there would be no end to amount of jokes, but he was glad Lestrade was here. Without him, he would've been lost.

* * *

John was asleep, and the trees were thinning as they approached the village, still dark and empty. Lestrade was still carrying John and he glanced down, smiling at the expression on the doctor's face as he traipsed through the thigh high grass that surrounded the town as the rain misted down.

Lestrade decided to give John a break. No one needed to know he was carried all this way. After all, he was one of the Queen's soldiers. He had a reputation to uphold, "John," Lestrade called softly, running a hand up and down the doctor's back, waiting for him to stir. Slowly, as they made their way across the open fields, John opened his eyes and for a minute wondered why in heaven's name Lestrade was holding him when he remembered, "Morning," said Lestrade, and John smiled, 'Do you want to walk in?" John laughed. He didn't really. He _liked_ being carried. No effort needed that way and it was a whole lot less painful. But he nodded anyway, "Yes please,' he said and Lestrade stopped, gently allowing John to find his feet again.

* * *

Ten minutes later, both men were almost bowled over by a combination of Sally and Hope, who jumped them the minute that the door was opened by a worried Penelope. John laughed into Sally's embrace as she hugged him, before letting go and pulling Lestrade into a hug. Hope actually jumped from the floor and into John's arms as Penelope dragged all of them inside,

'Hey John," The doctor turned to see Jim sitting on the couch smiling. He stared at the man, before breaking into a smile, right back at the man, lighting up the entire room. Penelope ushered them to the couch, 'Greg, you can't just disappear like that!" she scolded and Lestrade nodded, exchanging a glance with John who would have to deal with an almost as angry Mrs. Hudson when he got home, "Not that it didn't bring about good things," she patted John on the head and handed both of them towels that she had kept ready. She turned to John, "your friend, Sherlock, he's at the hospital now," John felt like someone had inflated a balloon of happiness inside of him,

'He's alright?" he asked weakly,

'Oh yes," Sally cut in, leaning forward in her armchair, "He's been giving everyone hell because they left you behind. They had to put him under and even then, they needed a double dose. He's also on pretty powerful antibiotics, but he's alright otherwise," Her eyes were shining with tears and her face was flushed, "I was so damn worried about you!" she repeated, looking at Lestrade, not sure whether to punch him for disappearing or to hug him again,

"Sorry," he said, rather lamely, as he dried off his hair and John collapsed back into the pillows, letting out a huff of air as he did so, his towel wrapped around his shoulders, his hair sticking up at odd angles,

"He needs to get to the hospital," said Lestrade, the smile fading slightly, as he observed John,

"Yeah, the helicopter will fly out just as soon as there's a slight break,"

'Good," Lestrade leant back, closing his eyes as John stretched out on the couch and Sally went to make some coffee. Oh, he couldn't wait to get back to London.

* * *

Three hours and one helicopter ride later, Lestrade and Sally were gathered around Sherlock Holmes' bed in St Barts Hospital, London, and the detective was fast asleep, although if he had it his way, he'd be with John, who was still in surgery thanks to his shoulder, "Look at him," said Sally, not liking the paleness of his complexion or the way he seemed to wince with every breath,

"I know," Lestrade chuckled, leaning on the banister that surrounded the bed,

"If only he knew John was here," Sally grinned, "We'd have several unconscious doctors and nurses," Lestrade laughed, his voice breaking the quiet of the room.

It was white and bare, and had very little in it, except the flowers that both he and Sally had stopped by for before coming up here. Both officers looked up as Mycroft walked in, swinging his customary umbrella, "Detective, Sergeant," he said, nodding to both of them as they moved to allow him space, "Ah, Sherlock," he said, his voice getting slightly quieter as he looked down at the sleeping detective,

"So, did you do it?" Lestrade asked.

"Do what?" Mycroft looked up at him and Lestrade rolled his eyes,

'Did you send teams out to the mines? To close down the Silver Ring?" Mycroft seemed to think for a minute and Sally was beginning to understand why Sherlock didn't like his brother,

"Yes I did," he finally said, and Lestrade only just managed to stop himself from saying something he would regret, as Mycroft pulled out several papers from his pocket, and handed it over to Lestrade, 'The names of the twenty five leaders in twenty-five different countries," Mycroft explained as Lestrade gaped at the precious documents, "and the names of every single person captured in the raid." Mycroft huffed, 'Honestly, they were so easy to catch." Sally just nodded as her boss continued through the papers,

"Moriarty's in lock-up?" he asked, stopping at the last sheet,

"Yep," Mycroft nodded, resting one hand on the rails of Sherlock's bed, "Maximum security. His trial is coming up next month," Lestrade nodded,

'Thankyou," he said, looking up at the elder Holmes. He merely smiled,

"Just tying up some loose ends, it was you four who really brought all of this about," Lestrade smiled and Mycroft straightened his jacket, "You'll also be pleased to know that John is out of surgery at this very moment," Lestrade's head snapped up,

'Really?" he asked and Mycroft nodded, "You Wife, Mrs. Hudson and Mummy are on their way over as we speak," Lestrade blinked as if he were trying to remember he had a wife

"My wife?"

"Julianne, remember?" Mycroft said as Sally sniggered, "Married for eleven years?"

"Yeah,' Lestrade shook his head and Sally laughed,

"Let's get going," she said, 'Mycroft you'll stay here?" he nodded and took a seat in the uncomfortable plastic seat as Lestrade and Sally left the room to visit John.

* * *

'You can wake up now," Mycroft said, staring at his brother. There was no response for a second and then Sherlock's eyes opened,

"You're a party pooper,' Sherlock complained, turning so that he was looking at Mycroft,

"Grow up, Sherlock," Mycroft huffed as he shifted his position. Sherlock sat up gingerly, the pain in his side numbed by the painkiller,

"Just when they were about to start saying interesting things,"

'You want to know how Lestrade rescued John," Mycroft stated bluntly. Sherlock was silent for a second, his face blank before he gave in,

"Yeah, I do," he said and Mycroft laughed,

'Oh Sherlock," he said, shaking his head,

'What?" Sherlock said, suddenly defensive and he didn't even know why. Mycroft chuckled again,

'You're in love, dear brother," Sherlock stared out of the window, at the bustling city below and the misting rain.

'Very Probably," Sherlock conceded, slowly, still not looking at his brother,

"And you're jealous,"

'Also a probability," Mycroft stood up so that Sherlock was staring right at him, his dark eyes boring into his younger brothers,

"I suggest you do something about that," With an incline of his head and a mutter that he was going to meet Mummy, he left Sherlock sitting as he was.

* * *

The night was clear, and the stars shone down on the sleeping city below it. Long since had visitors come and gone for both Sherlock and John. Both their rooms were filled with flowers, Sherlock had been fussed over by his mother, and John by Mrs. Hudson, before they swapped over as if the whole thing was planned. Members of the Yard came, including Anderson, who left Sherlock's room fuming.

Now, at eleven forty-three, the consulting detective was meant to be asleep, but he wasn't. He was awake. John wasn't allowed to come and see him because he was classified too weak. He wanted to see John. He needed to see John. Sherlock stared at the clock. It was nearing the end of the nurses' shift before the graveyard watch came on. _The nurses on duty will be half asleep_…Sherlock grinned wickedly, his ebony curls falling over his face. Carefully, hissing as he moved his abdomen, Sherlock turned so that his feet were on the ground. Gently, glad he wasn't hooked to any monitors and dressed in his own pyjamas, Sherlock moved to the door, the floor cold beneath his feet.

He eased it open and stuck his head out. The lights were dim and there were shadows everywhere in the empty corridor. Sherlock knew the room number John was in. It was down the corridor and to the right. Slowly, not daring to hurry in case he hurt himself and drew attention, Sherlock made his way down. The hospital was silent at this time, and outside the windows it was completely black.

Finding the door, Sherlock gently opened the door and swung it open – to see John trying to prise the heart monitor pads off himself. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as he took in John's figure – shirtless thanks to the doctor's attempts to get out of the machinery. A bandage was running down his entire right side, covering the scar from the bullet wound and Sherlock was sure there was another one on his leg. John looked up and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway.

The heart monitor jumped and Sherlock grinned. Before he could think he was moving forward and he had John pinned to the bed beneath him, somehow managing to get himself onto the bed, 'You…" he breathed, lying on top of the doctor, hungrily studying his face, as if he could never get enough,

"Sherlock," John tried but couldn't go any further. Sherlock silenced him with a searing kiss, as he ran his hand down John's good side, feeling the shudder that ran through him, and the ripple of muscles as he tried to reciprocate. Sherlock broke apart only for breath, still keeping John in place with his weight. 'Sherlock, it's-it's good to see you too,' John panted, as the detective rested his head against John. He laughed,

"Yeah John," His breath was deliciously warm on John face.

'When we get home, Sherlock," John started as Sherlock planted a kiss on his nose,

'Don't complete that sentence if you want me to maintain any control at all," Sherlock whispered, not needing to speak any louder as he moved his mouth to John's ear,

"Since when have you had any control at all?" John's voice was husky, as he mumbled against Sherlock's neck and the detective paused, unable to form words, completely distracted by the man underneath him. Finally, he managed to croak out,

"Well…since I met you," He raised himself that that he was on his elbows, his face inches from John's.

"Really?" John raised an eyebrow before chuckling. He couldn't believe they were really doing this in a hospital bed,

"John," Sherlock became serious, "I know that you, well, I mean," Sherlock winced. He hated when he didn't make any sense,

'Just say it Sherlock," John said, a soft smile on his lips,

"I know I have my faults," Sherlock thought for a minute, 'And I know that I'm not the best with feelings," John felt hope building in his chest, but almost dare not think about it until Sherlock said the words, "but John…I love you, with all my heart," Sherlock ran a thumb over John's cheek, tracing his features, and he closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath, "And it's a lot to think about, I know, but…" Sherlock swallowed and John opened his eyes. His warm, reliable, happy eyes, "Will you give us a chance?" Sherlock looked into those eyes as a massive grin spread across John's face,

"Yes," He nodded, "Yes, Sherlock, I will" He repeated, and, freeing, his hand, he pulled the stunned Sherlock into a kiss, smiling into it as his world fell into place.

_I want to lay you down in a bed of roses,_

_For tonight, I sleep on a bed of nails,_

_I want to be just as close as,_

_The Holy Ghost is,_

_And lay you down in a Bed of Roses_

* * *

Oh my God. Well, it's only taken two months, but I'm done. I reeaaallyy hoped you enjoyed it, because I know I enjoyed writing it. : D thankyou so much for the support! I love you all so much!

Especially these guys, who have encouraged me from the start and have been my support.

**XmillieX, Buyokitty, Darmed, Alora 05, Foxfire222, flamedrAco, doctorcoffeegirl, Bloodxtraitor and bbmcowgirl.**

And if you're looking for some great stories, these are some truly great authors and fanfic's:

**Alerix Slynn - **_Requiem ,_** NightmareXdoll22 – **_Getting to know you_ and _ Holiday from Hellmouth__**, **_**Cookie369 – **_What does it take _and S_ome sort of trouble._

And **Mini Reyes **My best friend – I love you for all your support!

AND THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL…

Aza

xoxo


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